Second Best
by xoVanilla-Bean
Summary: Neither was first choice. Look in the mirror, what do you see? — Madge lives!PostWar!AU; Madge/Gale
1. chapter one

a/n; This might be considered sacrilegious. This is not Gale/Katniss. _WHO AM I._ I apologize to any of the readers who are still around who enjoy my usual Gale/Katniss stories, and who might have been hoping this was another Gale/Katniss.

As I'm purging all of my unfinished pieces, I came across this one. It was supposed to be a short, angst-riddled piece using Madge and Gale, and it was going to be tragic and unhappy. I figured my 20 year old me would appreciate finishing what she started, even though it became a different type of monster than the one she wanted. I'm happy to say that it is now, officially, complete.

This has become an experimental endeavor for me. I took liberties with Madge's character, considering that we don't really know her very well, and I haven't read the book in years. This was also once inspired by Pedro the Lion. They're still good if you want to take a listen.

Happy reading! Any reviews, comments, thoughts are always highly valued, loved, and appreciated.

**Second**Best  
chapter one

"I have to remind myself that Gale's in 2 with a fancy job, probably kissing another pair of lips." - _Mockingjay_

* * *

Madge will always remember the day she ran into Gale in District Two. Roughly a year after the raids and the war, she had run into him on a sidewalk.

A sidewalk, of all mundane things, she remembers thinking, his unmistakable veneer a sudden wonder in the throng of people. His features were wizened and old in the morning sunlight, in a way that commands for attention.

She stops in front of him, surprised when he doesn't walk past. When his eyes look down at her, it's frightening. Shadows absorb him. Dark in his eyes and his hair and everywhere. She forces herself to stand her ground, taken back to the days where he was on her doorstep, sneering and glaring in his prideful snarls. He was frightening back then, too, but only in stature and harsh words. He reminded her more of a wounded dog—nearly harmless and only protecting himself. Now, he's fearsome in his stance, and she knows he could eat her alive if he wanted to.

He speaks first, after they give each other deliberate once overs.

"They mayor's daughter, Madge Undersee," he says, flatly. "You're not in your castle."

"You think I'd still hide away in a castle?" she says, her tone clashing acutely against his. It makes her cringe. She shakes her head. "I've been in Twelve for most of their reconstruction. Now I'm here."

"Fascinating," he says. "Don't dirty your pretty, little dresses." Then he pushes passed her, on his way to whatever it is that he does. She is indignant, clothes far from pretty and far from formal. Her clothes match his, her status matches his.

Not that she was expecting him to notice or to care. But it seemed, in the rebirth of Panem, there was a rebirth in her, as well.

Orphaned and alone, a familiar face is something she found herself ardently clinging onto. The familiar face being _Gale Hawthorne_ doesn't do much to discourage the sentiment.

* * *

She thinks she could easily find him around the District if she wanted to, once she acquaints herself with it. Few bars, food joints, and shops litter the area. She tries each one, tasting the difference in the food and the atmosphere, feeling liberated by each subtly altered experience.

When she finds Gale in a quaint little eatery, she boldly takes the vacant seat in front of him.

He isn't startled by her appearance, nor is he interested in her arrival. He gives her one passive glance, and it provokes a very insignificant feeling inside her. She straightens her back against her seat in return, trying to fend it off.

"Loneliness seems to suit you," she says, nerves getting the better of her.

"Then why are you here?"

She's never been good with interaction of any kind. Her father and the imposed seclusion on her childhood helped to nurture that. She bites her bottom lip.

"I've never been to this place."

He gives her a cold stare, and it is unsettling how much he can file down her carefully crafted apathy into a ball of insecurity. Perhaps he's always had that talent—she remembers trying to ignore him when he and Katniss would arrive at her doorstep, because she did not like what he made her feel. Unworthy. Villainous. Due to that, she would not acknowledge it. Not acknowledging any emotion helped to cultivate how she was able to protect herself from them.

Now, however, it is very difficult. His eyes are lasers of indifference. She feels small and inadequate, no matter how much she tries to brush the creeping feelings away.

She digs her nails into the palm of her hand below the table, and decides to look around the café. It is different than most of the places she has been. The lights overhead are soft, reminding her of the morning light. The tables look antique—old wood refurbished with stains and paint. The seats are cushioned comfortably, handstitched from the looks of it, and there is a window along the back wall, allowing a view into the back kitchen. The smells waft to the open eating area with pleasant aromas. There is some chatter among the patrons, filling the room with vibration, intermingled with the sounds of sizzling food. The walls are painted in a soft, pastel yellow, and bright, wooden oak floors complete the area inside, reflecting the morning and the soft, overhead lights into a comfortable bubble of space.

Madge wonders, not for the first time, why Gale is here, with his darkness, and brooding, and cold stares.

A waitress comes around not long after, unabashedly pouting at Madge. She's young, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, full red lips, and a dimple that appears beside her mouth while she pouts.

Ah, Madge thinks. This is why Gale's here.

"Oh, I didn't know you were having company! I would have put down another place setting," the young waitress says with no hint of honesty. Madge meanly wonders how much time it takes her to do her make-up, and what she's trying to hide with it all clumped over her face.

"I'm not having company," Gale answers, smiling effortlessly at the waitress. How is he able to do that? Madge wonders. She hardly ever has the energy to smile at anyone, much less when she doesn't mean it.

"She's merely just an unfortunate acquaintance," Gale continues, gesturing in Madge's general direction. "Can you bring me the check? I'm leaving."

The young waitress blinks, glances at Madge, then smiles back at Gale. "Not a problem, I'll bring it out in just a second."

She saunters off, and Madge watches her go, wondering if the waitress thinks her hips are undulating seductively enough to catch Gale's interest. What a poor girl—she doesn't seem like she's been affected by the war at all, not with how vacuous her eyes seem to be, or how she twirls her perfectly curled hair while she rings up Gale's ticket.

"I always wondered how your charm worked," Madge says, letting his coldness settle over her. It's good practice for her. She tries to rebuild her bubble of apathy while she has his attention. "I guess it makes it easy when you go after the weakest prey, doesn't it?"

He sneers at her. "I feel sorry for you. You're just as snobbish now as you were back in District Twelve, aren't you?"

"That depends. Was I snobbish in District Twelve?"

"If memory serves, you were always pampered and clean and high and mighty in your little mansion."

"How do you know that, Gale? I never invited you in for a makeover."

"It's hard to invite anyone when you had no friends."

Madge places a hand over her chest. "Oh, is that supposed to be hurtful? You can do better than that."

"I miscalculated. I forgot you're an orphaned, self-serving bitch. Remind me next time."

The young waitress appears, standing right besides Gale's elbow, completely oblivious to the odd tension that has soaked the atmosphere between the length of the table. She bats her eyes and hands over the ticket. Gale takes it and smiles, and Madge watches carefully. It is still just as effortless as the smile beforehand. Madge is impressed. Gale, with all his outward spikes and hot pokers, doesn't seem to have any trouble with concealing them with smiles. To Madge, that's a very dangerous skill. Hiding behind any curtain you'd like—she's only ever been able to hide behind a thick curtain of transparency. Sometimes, she thinks it would make her life so much easier if she could fake and bullshit her way out of things—with a smile or a kiss or an ounce of manipulation and charm.

"Here you are, Gale. Would you like a coffee to go? Tea?"

"No, not today. Thank you, Melinda," he says, still smiling and handing her his payment. His voice even sounds warm. What a concept.

"Of course," the young waitress, Melinda, says with a shameless amount of adoration. "I'll be right back."

"Sure."

Madge wrinkles her nose. "How many times has she written her number on the back of the receipts?"

"About as many times as I'm sure you've ruined people's mornings. Desperate for human contact, princess? That's the only reason I can guess for you to be sitting across from me."

"You were the first person on my list once I realized you didn't die in the war," Madge says, pressing her elbows into the table and leaning forward. "How did the war end for you, anyway?"

"Better than yours, I imagine. I wonder how you wake up every day, with no family or friends. What are you still living for, Undersee?"

_Chink._ Madge can hear a piece of her building bubble chip off as she tries to relax her jaw. She tries to keep her face the epitome of passivity, an inscrutable statue.

"I saw your family back in District Twelve, before I left. What are they doing there and what are you doing here?" Madge places her chin in her palm. "Must be hard, going to visit them when they're so close to what you lost."

Gale's face becomes a darkened shadow once more, his cold stare turning to ice. She hit his armor, too, it seems. Not very hard to do. Allude Katniss Everdeen, and there's bound to be some kind of reaction.

Melinda returns, and Madge is almost surprised that there is not a lipstick kiss on the receipt.

"Have a wonderful day," Melinda says, winking. "Come back soon, okay?"

The words are nearly coated with begging. Madge stares at her, but Melinda only has eyes for Gale.

"You know I will," Gale answers smoothly, and Melinda is sauntering off again, her hips bouncing with vigor.

"Don't you ever get tired of it?" Madge says, continuing to stare at Melinda's hips. They're hypnotic in the worst way.

"What? Being adored by beautiful women?" he says sarcastically, placing the receipt in his pocket.

"Insincerity," she answers. "Smiling when you don't mean it."

"Hm. No. I enjoy talking and smiling at others. Maybe you just don't understand social interaction." He stands, and says, "Go crawl back into whatever hole you came from. Do everyone else a favor."

She watches as he takes his leave, feeling the words bounce off her rectified bubble. When she hears the little bell ring above the door, signaling his departure from the building, she sighs.

She doesn't know why she can't just be normal. She doesn't know why the first thing she wants to do when she sees an acquaintance is to attempt to wring out their insides. To be wary, to hide, to protect herself. It seems like it's been that way forever. Whenever her mother would become lucid for a few precious hours, Madge would snip and snap at her—"Oh, did you decide to grace us with your presence, mother?" Or—"Why even bother to wake up? I do everything without you, anyway." She was a nasty, petulant teenager, ungrateful and angry, and she wonders, at times, if it would have made anything different had she been more accommodating. If she had been more understanding, sympathetic, and patient. Her mother had lost her sister, and it had shattered her into unrecognizable pieces. Madge knew well that she could never be enough for what had been taken so ruthlessly away, so she would sit at her piano and play and play and play, because her mother loved it once. Had smiled or cried when she'd hear the notes echo in the house, and had pulled Madge to her before, whispering how beautiful she was._ My beautiful Madge. _

When her father would come home from work, he'd bypass both of them and drink from the tumbler of whiskey on the mantel. He would sit, stare out their window, and drink until it was time for bed. It was his time to be alone. Once Madge became a teenager, she stopped trying to vie for his attention. She couldn't compare to the sweet essence of libation, and her music did not stir him or give him the level of joy it had given her mother. It was all she had to offer, and she was at a loss when her father would walk out of the room.

Madge stares out the window at her side, and she watches Gale's form fade from view down the sidewalk. She wonders where the sidewalk takes him, what kind of job he has, and how far he's come from the boy he was in District Twelve.

She ends up eating at the café, replicating Gale's order once Melinda finally accepts her presence at the table. Some minutes later, Melinda delivers her a short stack of pancakes, with strawberry compote slathered on top.

Madge can't help her amusement at the irony. Strawberries. Maybe Gale hasn't changed at all.


	2. chapter two

chapter two

* * *

It's a long while before Madge sees Gale again. She's certain she could find him again, if she truly wanted to, and if she didn't only rely on the off-chance of meeting him again on a sidewalk in the middle of District Two.

Instead, she puts him out of her mind and continues on with her life.

She works for the Reconstructive Division of District Two. They have not yet established concrete pillars of government; it is all still in infancy, but as the days go by, the infrastructure becomes stronger. Paylor has maintained her position as a national leader, and is head of the Safety Division. Madge started in District Twelve's Reconstructive Division for the year following the war and had been "promoted" to an area in which the District Twelve leaders believed she would be better suited. She still isn't sure if they promoted her because of who her father was, or because she reminded them too much of _before._ Everyone has their prejudices, and she doesn't allow enough outward emotion to attempt changing their minds. She still believes if she had only just showed them all how much she cared for her hometown, it would have been different, and she wouldn't have been sent to this seemingly alien District, with their strange fashion and bright colors.

Perhaps she is odd to miss the grays and browns of her District, to miss the place where her family burned up in the explosions. But then—that's the only home she's ever had. She can't visit her parent's graves. She can't look upon the house she built in their name, imagining a world with them when her mom was sober and her dad cared. Her little, pathetic dream world. She's homesick for something that will never exist.

So, she places all of her energy into reconstructing the Capitol Districts. The places she hated. The places she thinks that, perhaps, she can help to change.

That's why she's doing this job. To change and renew. To rebirth these places she's always found ugly, power hungry, and filled with greed. To start over. That's what she's passionate about. This job, it seems, was made specifically for her. She'd finally felt like she found her place somewhere, and she felt like she could belong here, if she really wanted. If she could make it all perfect, free of any blemish, and free of internal rot.

This is where she meets Bradley. He becomes her first boyfriend. He isn't wholly unwanted by her—in fact, she thinks this will be a good time to practice a very scary concept: vulnerability. To lower her guard completely. Try to let herself feel something—anything besides her indifference and something besides her satisfaction in her work.

It almost works like she wants. Bradley is handsome, is interested in her, and is persistent and unrelenting. At this time in her life, he is everything she needs. Someone who doesn't easily give up on her. Who will come up behind her in the bathroom as she's getting ready for the evening, snaking his arms around her waist and putting his chin on her shoulder, looking into her eyes through the mirrored reflection, telling her that she's a beautiful vision. And she tries to see it, to see what he's seeing. All she sees are light shadows under her eyes, pale skin that has not seen enough sunlight, blonde hair that is bleached out by the fluorescent lights of her bathroom. She doesn't see beauty. She sees a husk trying very hard to be full.

In that instant, she remembers Gale's effortless fake smile to the waitress at that one quaint little café downtown. She thinks she can try it now, because Bradley is very nice, and so empathetic, and he compliments her when she's feeling uneasy or lacking confidence. Usually, she takes the compliments in stride because she doesn't know what to say after he says one. She has to refrain from asking _are you sure?_ Because that's not what normal people say to compliments. Normal people blush and say thank you. It would be rude of her to ask him to take it back.

_Quit bullshitting,_ she wants to say, at times, because she is not pretty. She's mean and sarcastic. Her cheeks have no color without blush. Her eyelashes are too sparse and too fine. Who does he see in this mirror?

When they have sex for the first time, Madge allows it because she thinks she will feel something. She feels writhing pain and a desperate sense of longing, like he's carving a deeper, weeping wound from a hypertrophic scar. When it's over, she feels a hollowness, a deep ache, and nothing. She feels nothing.

She goes to the bathroom and bleeds into the toilet, and she stares at the tiled floor and waits for something to happen. She feels silent tears overflow and slip onto her cheeks, and she wipes them away before they can truly exist.

She tries for a while more, but when they inevitably break up, sweet Bradley is not as understanding as he had been about everything else. Broken love certainly makes people hurt, and it makes them belligerent and confused and lost. When they break up, Madge sees herself in him—her lost teenaged soul, wrapped up with hate and longing for something that will never be.

Madge realizes how exhausted she is once she is alone. She is tired, and the bags under her eyes are deeper, and she wants to sleep forever. Instead, she gets dressed for work, and she acts like nothing ever happened. Her default emotions of apathy and nothingness, which she had tried her best to erase, comes back like an old lover, slipping over her like a second skin. She drowns in it, the pressure too persistent to resist.

It's when she's walking to work, a solitary week after her first breakup. She is staring at the sidewalk, watching its cracks, reminding her of veins, running back to the heart of the city. She follows them every day, and she has only noticed them this one lonely morning.

Her shoulder bumps into someone—it's very rough, and it jerks her out of her reverie. She glances behind her to the culprit and sees Gale doing the same thing.

"Oh," she says, but the _I'm sorry_ gets caught in her throat. He frowns, looks her up and down.

He says, "What happened to you? Did you get run over by a train this morning?"

It's refreshing, in some weird way. Gale doesn't bullshit. He tells her what he sees, and it's exactly what she sees in the mirror. At least someone justifies her repulsion.

"I think it was a herd of buffalo."

He stares at her hard, dissecting her. She doesn't feel the shudder of cold she had during their first meeting, but she blames it over the fact that she is seemingly desensitized to everything, these days.

Gale turns all the way around. "Are you not sleeping well?"

Their chance encounters are funny. They've never properly greeted each other. She can't remember when exactly it was, but it's been several months since that first encounter on this sidewalk. Even then, it was informal.

She shrugs at him. "How come we run into each other on sidewalks?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

They stare at each other a little longer. Gale seems to think about something—he's still dark around the edges, but there's something different about his veneer. The shadow has eased, but he maintains the look of someone who could demolish her without a second thought. His eyes are a bit lighter, but still passive and severe and unflinching.

"You know," he says. "I want to apologize for the things I said the last time we saw each other. They weren't warranted. I hardly know anything about you."

Madge blinks. "Are you being…nice?" She closes her eyes. She can't deal with this. "Nice is the last thing I need. If I have any more nice, I'm going to hurl."

Gale quirks a brow at her. He might be amused. "That's a new one."

She shakes her head. "Please. Do me a favor and stay an asshole," she says.

Gale's mouth quirks this time, and it's almost a smile. Madge feels like a bucket of cold water is poured over her, an ice cold bucket. It's worse than the passive stares. She can't stand this anymore.

"Have a good life," she says, departing and waving a hand over her shoulder. Gale doesn't stop her, and she's very glad of it.

* * *

Madge continues to judge herself in the mirror in her apartment. Each time, she finds a different set of flaws. Too short, too misshapen, too asymmetrical. It's all very self-deprecating, but it turns into a game for her. She tries to find the things she can change naturally, and she decides that exercise couldn't hurt. She's too flabby. Skinny, but all soft and rounded. A skinny fat. Her body doesn't hold a modicum of toughness, and if she could feel like she's strong in her body, surely that'll bleed into feeling strong with everything else.

She begins running. She hates it before she begins to love it. Her first run, she throws up. Her second, she almost passes out in the middle of a park. Slowly, slowly, she is able to run farther and faster, running over the bridges of the District, through the streets of the suburbs, to the new, remodeled areas she's been working on with a team of others. For the first time since taking on her job, she finds another passion in something. She feels something. She thinks this might be what falling in love feels like—heart pounding, short of breath and struggling to fill her lungs with the fresh, crisp morning air. Her muscles ache, her bones ache, her stomach strains in stitches, and she's finally alive. She sweats like she runs through rainstorms. Her ponytail sticks to her back like a mop, and she's addicted to the pain and the release of energy, funneling out of her like a waterfall.

She starts to experiment. She lifts weights, she does plyometrics, she does everything. Soon, she has to choose what exercise she wants to do in the morning, and she looks forward to it.

It's different. She loves it.

She looks in the mirror, and her face leaves her wanting, but her body is becoming stronger. It's becoming fuller, and it's less asymmetric with her old skinny fat, and she can begin to see lines of definition. It's strange, but it's progress, and she thinks she can finally feel okay about the presentation of her exterior. She's not sure if she can change her interior, but this is a start. If anything, maybe she can begin to like what she sees in the mirror.

Until then, she still plays the game with herself. _What's wrong with Madge, today?_

She experiments with her hair. Red, blue, rose, streaks of black, brown. She takes inspiration from the endangered fashion of District Two, attempting outlandish styles, curls, braids. She buys a handful of outfits she'd never wear on her own, and she swallows her embarrassment a few days of the work week—deciding that pleated skirts, bows, and an array of polka dots layered with stripes is not and will never be her primary choice of clothing.

Once, in a moment of weakness and homesickness, Madge buys a keyboard. It is nothing like her grand piano that she once had, with its polished wood, golden accents, yawning back showing off its internal structures, but it fits in this apartment. She places it up against a wall on a stand and shoves a stool underneath it. She stares at it, and it stares back at her. It goads her to play. It shines at her, begging her to touch one key with her finger. It tells her that this is what she's been missing. It's part of the past, and it scares her, and it won't bring her mother back with her coos of _my beautiful Madge. _

She almost throws the keyboard out. Instead, she throws a cover on it, hiding it from view.

A few months later, Madge and her team finish the construction of a school building in the downtown area of District Two. She oversees the operations, and she helps with the manual labor. Building a blueprint from scratch, creating the bones of it, adding the layers of skin and crafting the nuances. She feels pride in it. It's a masterpiece in her eyes. No flaws, perfect coats of paint, brick, no hairline cracks she can find. She's meticulous and thorough in her building and creating. If it isn't perfect the first time, it will be perfect the second time.

It is glorious and satisfying, looking at something created with perfect symmetry, with no flaws, with a fated purpose in the world.

Her next boyfriend turns out to be the principal of the newly minted school. At first, she correlates him to the school building, with all its perfection and newness. It's like she's dating her own creation, and there is something powerful in the concept.

He's different than Bradley, but he's similar in how he treats her. She's always beautiful, he parrots, and she's gotten better with her fake smiles. Too good, in fact. She's not sure when or if they are actually real when she makes them.

She tries her best to feel something when they kiss. She tries to feel the euphoria from her runs when he touches her thighs and her breasts. She wants to feel like she's run a marathon when they finish, but it can't be more than five kilometers, and she's so desperate to feel something that she thinks she successfully tricks herself into feeling what she wants, whatever that is.

It becomes tedious after a few months, and she must be a selfish girlfriend because she always blows him off for an evening run instead. His hands feel cool and tepid when they entwine their fingers together. They have sex occasionally, because Madge knows that's what they're supposed to do—it's her apology for being cold and standoffish and invulnerable.

Eventually, she finds him in bed with another woman, and she can't feel surprised by it, because she wouldn't want to be with herself, either. It gives her a good enough reason to breakup with him, and she has to wonder why he didn't break up with her in the first place, before finding someone else to fulfill his needs.

She is surprised, however, when he tries to keep their breakup from happening. She's confused by it—she thought he would want to breakup. He can go freely screw his new filly whenever he wanted to, and yet that's not what he wanted.

"I just—I haven't made you love me, and I want you to love me so badly," he pleads.

Madge recoils from him. "Why?" she asks.

"Because I love you, Madge. I love you. I want this to work."

What a strange way to show it, she thinks, while she throws him out the door. Madge doesn't know much about love, and she doesn't know much about emotions, but even she knows that he is a filthy liar. She won't let him waste any more of her time.

Just like that, she's alone again. She turns twenty in the next few weeks, and she wonders if this is how life will be—a repetitive cycle of being alone and then falling into a benign relationship, only to remove herself back into the shelter of her own arms.

She thinks, maybe, she can learn how to feel comfort in her own skin, being alone without the burden of trying to gain affection from another. To feel the heightened emotions. To give and receive in full measure, with nothing holding her back. If she could only—if she could stop despising herself, if she could feel _normal_, it would make it a whole hell of a lot easier.

She glances up to herself in the mirror, and asks, _what's wrong with Madge, today?_

Then she sighs, turns off the bathroom light, and goes to bed.


	3. chapter three

a/n; **_Endless_** thank yous to the guests who have reviewed! I am a review _slut_ (who isn't?), and they made my world. I wasn't sure if anyone would read this, and yet you beautiful humans took the time out to leave me precious comments. Thank you, thank you. I wish I could reply personally. I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

chapter three

* * *

It's a few weeks later. It's a normal day at work. She's surveying the construction team's handling of a new downtown building in the District. They are commissioned to create office spaces for the sole purpose of maintaining and creating technology. The old Snow-era technology—with restrained innovation and usage, of course. Wouldn't want any more people being turned into rabid dog-beasts, would we?—along with new technology that will be created for the greater good of humanity. Madge will believe it when she sees it. She trusts Paylor and a few other executives, but…

Authority figures have never held a high regard in her opinion.

So she's surprised when her assistant clears her throat beside her, as she's fixing a flaw in the electronic blueprint. She looks up to her assistant, raising an eyebrow inquiringly. She's a meek little thing, her assistant. Her name is Natasha, and she has thin glasses, freckles, is a few inches shorter than Madge, and always seems terrified when she must interrupt her when she's working. Madge doesn't feel like she's done anything to make the girl so frightened of her. Then again, it seems everyone tries to avoid her, as if a poisonous cloud surrounds her with a five foot radius. She's sure Natasha would use a long stick to interact with Madge if she could.

"Miss Undersee?"

"Madge," she corrects, futilely. "What is it, Natasha?"

She pushes up her glasses, fidgeting and nervous. "There is a Gale Hawthorne to see you, ma'am."

Madge blinks, her fingers pausing over the blueprint. "Did he say what he wanted?"

"He said it was an urgent matter of life and death. But…he also winked at me, so I am uncertain."

Madge only just holds back an eyeroll. "Gale Hawthorne is no one to prioritize, Natasha, for future reference. I highly doubt there will be a future encounter you will have to worry about," she says, then, reluctantly, she continues. "Send him in."

Natasha bobs her head. "Yes, ma'am."

In a few seconds, there is a light knock on her door, and Gale enters her office. He's in a uniform that she vaguely remembers seeing him in before in their last encounters. It's a generic government uniform. It's a dark navy jumpsuit, with his name stitched in the top right corner of his breast pocket.

"What do you want?" she begins.

"I was wondering what your first response would be to me. Glad to hear it wasn't surprising," Gale says. He retains his immaculate posture, shoulders back and down, hands clasped behind his back. She almost wants to say,_ At ease, soldier_, just to see what he'd do.

"I'm busy," she says, her eyes going back to her blueprint. "I'll ask one more time. What do you want?"

His chest heaves in a sigh. "I'm here on behalf of Paylor. She requests an audience with you in her chambers about a…job opportunity."

_Job opportunity?_ The words ring in her ears. She looks again at his uniform, realizing he must be working for Paylor in the Safety Division. That fits—from the rumors she heard of the war, Gale's the one who invented the bomb that effectively rendered Snow's mansion into an estate of rubble.

"Why would the Safety Division need someone like me? All I do is draw blueprints," she says.

Gale's face is inscrutable. "I am unauthorized to disclose any information regarding Paylor's intentions. My duty is to send the message. Her office is three blocks away. I am to escort you there at the earliest possible availability."

Madge raises one eyebrow. Escort? As soon as she can? Interesting. There are other blueprint makers in the building—she's curious as to why Paylor asked for her, specifically. Or, perhaps, it's because of who her father was. If Paylor thinks Madge has any intel on past connections of her father, she will be sorely disappointed.

Madge glances back down at her half-finished blueprint and resigns with a sigh. She'll get back to it soon. She's too curious about this "opportunity". She pushes out of her chair and stands.

"Fine," she says. "Are you sure you're capable of escorting?"

Gale looks her up and down. "If you're flighty, I'll have to handcuff you. Otherwise, I can manage."

"Oh, handcuffs? I didn't realize the Safety Division had such authority."

They walk out of the office, and into the hallway toward the elevators.

"I wouldn't say authority," Gale says. "It's more like an…occupational precautionary measure."

They enter the elevator, and Gale hits the button for the ground floor. Madge stares at him until he expands on his answer, but he doesn't.

"Does the Safety Division deal with criminals or unruly people so often to need precautionary measures?"

Gale maintains his perfected, unfathomable expression, staring straight ahead to the metal, elevator doors. "It's more of a preference."

Madge tries not to be interested by his vague answers. She'll surely learn more from Paylor, herself than Gale's impenetrable demeanor.

Once they are outside in the District's streets, Madge says, "Why'd they send you? I can't see you jumping for joy to come escort me."

"Paylor seems to be under the impression that we're best friends."

At the deadpan inflection of Gale's tone, Madge's face quirks. "Whatever gave her such a terribly incorrect impression?"

"We're both from District Twelve, I guess."

"Oh, of course. Everyone's friends there," she says sarcastically. "Didn't you get the memo? Wait, I forgot you were busy inciting rebellion."

"While you were inside your little mansion, living in a pretty, perfect world."

A heat flares in her stomach at his words. She immediately resents them. They are so disgustingly fictitious and unfounded. She grinds her teeth together before she spouts off unnecessary defense for her life. It's not like he'd believe her, and she can't have him triumphant in provoking her so easily.

Instead, she swallows the first round of flames crawling up her throat. It takes her a long minute or two, and they are on block two of three before she spits out, "I guess you wouldn't understand the posh, _perfect_ life even if I tried to explain it."

He looks over at her for a moment, finally breaking his stiff, forward posture. He might have noticed the venom lacing her words, but she doesn't care because she continues to look straight ahead, carefully allowing her muscles to relax. He, surprisingly, says nothing more.

They arrive to Paylor's office in silence. Gale knocks on her door and awaits on confirmation to enter. When they do, he steps off to the side and gestures Madge forward to stand in front of Paylor's desk. It's a large, sturdy desk, made out of wood instead of synthetic metals, as the rest of the building is structured. It is old fashioned, and her mind thinks back to the quaint little café with its pastels and antique wood. Paylor's office is not made of pastels, but it does feel old—old in the way that it does not conform to the style of the building, nor of the District as a whole. Paylor uses an ink pen and a notepad instead of a tablet and electronic pen, which is what Madge uses for her work. The walls are off-white, with a tall, bronze lamp in the corner and picture frames surrounding the edges of her desk, paintings hanging on the walls.

It is the very juxtaposition of her own office. Her office has austerely white walls, black floors, that shine under the fluorescent lighting, silver lamps, sharp lines. Paylor's office reminds her of a cradle, of a pat on the shoulder, in comparison to the severity of her own workspace.

"Ah, Madge Undersee. Thank you for coming at such unexpected notice," Paylor says, smiling at her.

Madge blinks. She doesn't know this woman, but her welcome is so warm and sincere. She does not detect any underlying falsity in her tone. She nods and thinks about trying one of her smiles, too, but that wouldn't be fair. Hers are still too fake with strangers.

"Of course, ma'am. To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? My escort was unable to answer any of my more pressing questions."

Paylor steeples her fingers together on her desk. She glances over to Gale, then back to Madge, and Madge wonders if she heard the thinly veiled disdain when she said _escort_. "As I'm sure you know, I am head of the Safety Division for this region. That entails weaponry creation, militia and combative training for protection and defense for any surges of rebellion or radical action for the more…disgruntled of the population. Another thing the Safety Division entails is inspecting any and all buildings in the Capitol Districts for potentially destructive devices that are still active or technology that we have missed due to the subversive nature of how they were created."

Madge frowns in thought.

"Your division is in charge of much more than I realized, ma'am," she says.

Paylor nods and says, "We do not have the manpower to conduct our actions as thoroughly or efficiently as I'd like, nor do our team members have enough education over Capitol architecture for them to perform at the best of their abilities. While we have thought about educating specific teams for this purpose, this would put us back further on the timeline that has already been delayed. That's where you come in, Miss Undersee. I have it on good authority that you are one of the best in your Division at what you do." Paylor smiles at her again.

Madge maintains the frown on her face. Her boss, Richter Ross, never gave her any accolades for her work. Their relationship entailed her receiving his directions and her sending in the working and final reports. To be severely honest, she's not even sure he would read them. While she didn't need validation or words of affirmation for what she did, Paylor's words still give her pause.

"I…appreciate that, ma'am. I did not realize my boss thought that of me, but I'm afraid I'm not following. What do you need me for?"

"What I'm proposing is that you will be in charge of inspecting the older, pre-war buildings of the District for any hidden, potentially destructive, or beneficial technology. We have some blueprints that we've dug up from pre-war times, in files on the computers that weren't destroyed. Due to your experience with both popular, and, most importantly, unpopular building materials, I believed you would have the best eye for this kind of job. Before we demolish any more buildings and risk unnecessary deaths—I'm sure you've heard about the accidents?"

Madge had heard about the accidents. They happened in different sectors of the District. They didn't give Madge much hesitation in continuing with her own job. She just thought, like with Gale, it was a potential hazard of the occupation. Sometimes you knock down the wrong building and find yourself blown to bits by an untimely explosion. Sometimes you fall off a construction beam twenty stories high.

Madge doesn't have much to live for besides the job, and she figured it would be some kind of poetic justice if the job decided to end her life, just because she enjoyed it too much.

"Yes," Madge says. "I've heard."

"I know it's a long shot, but I thought I would ask you if you wanted to give this a try. We've tried all sorts of things before—infrared cameras to find hidden bombs, Geiger counters for radiation signatures, metal detectors—but nothing seems to work that way. The technology that we have salvaged, especially the Hunger Games arena technology, is minimal at best. Most of it is destroyed or rendered completely nonfunctional. We hypothesize that it was a failsafe if Snow died or his reign was ended…regardless, Snow's committee was very good at developing, and unfortunately most of them are dead or unwilling to help us," Paylor says, sighing. "That lot is loyal even after the end."

"Will this interfere with my job in Reconstruction?"

"Not at all. It will work in tandem. I've spoken to Richter about it, and fortunately, we see eye to eye on the important things. The agreement will be for you to work for me one day out of the working week. Forgive me for assuming, but will this work for you, as well?"

Madge glances at the floor. It sounds fine. Interesting, at the least. It wouldn't hurt to try, even if she can't help them. Besides, what does she have to lose? It'll be another thing she can put on her resume if all else fails.

"I don't know if I'll be much use, but I can try," she says, deciding and looking up to Paylor.

Paylor looks immensely pleased. "Wonderful, Miss Undersee. I'm sure you have more questions. This is in its infancy, but I would love to go over the details that we've set in place for this. Please, have a seat," she gestures, and her eyes sparkle with a passion that Madge can say she understands. She feels that way when her creations begin to take shape, coming to life from the bare bones to fully fleshed out walls and paint.

They talk for the better part of an hour. They go over the areas in District Two that are of the most concern. These areas are in the inner city, among the once throbbing heart containing the highest tier of socialites and the unfathomably rich. It is now in a decaying state, with the once rich and powerful downgraded to living among commoners. Most houses are abandoned shells, but some citizens still try to maintain what they have. These are the ones to be wary about. Paylor explains that they have run into some of these people several times, and they act like the war is still in effect.

"Handcuffs," Gale says from his corner, and Madge is surprised he's still there.

"We've tried to be as civil as we could be for the better part of the year," Paylor says, shaking her head. "They don't seem to care. They only want back what they used to have. Their numbers are falling, however. Some are finally succumbing to the new way of the world. Some we've had to imprison due to their threats and violence against innocent civilians. Some elude us and have gone into hiding. They truly act like it's the end of the world. Frankly, I don't think it's so bad."

Madge presses her lips together. "It's not. But it will never be the way it used to be. It's up to them to adapt to change or fail to thrive."

Paylor stares at Madge for a moment. It feels like an examination, the way her eyes glean over her face and her hands.

"I would guess that you were born in District Twelve, had I not already known," she says with a smile. Then her face schools, and she's all back to business.

Paylor gives her a map of the areas to start with. She tells her she has the freedom to use other people on her Reconstructive team or not—whatever she thinks she needs, she has the independence to choose as long as she notifies Paylor or Richter about it, first. They will communicate about it further if needed.

"That's very generous," Madge says.

Paylor goes over the importance of being protected, and that at least two guards will be with her at all times to survey and defend the general area while she conducts her inspection. Madge nods slowly, allowing herself to acquiesce. She doesn't particularly like the idea, though it is rational. Perhaps it is because she's never needed anyone to protect her, much less anyone who wanted to, regardless of it being a job.

"The protection is due to the explosions and unrest," Paylor says. "We secure each building before sending anyone in, but this District is unpredictable, and there is no reason for any more casualties. The war is over, for god's sake. We can't afford more explosions and an ambush. We've had a few fatalities and several injuries, and people don't want to come to work knowing that their lives are at risk. They didn't sign up for that."

That is true, at least. Madge thinks she can swallow her battered pride for a moment.

"Who will be my guards?" she asks.

Paylor tips her head, glancing behind her. "I'm glad you asked. One, you already know."

Madge blinks, and a nasty cold trickle falls into her stomach. She should have seen this coming. Gale clears his throat, confirming her worst fears.

"Hawthorne? _Hawthorne_ is going to be my bodyguard?"

"Don't sound so pleased," Gale says, walking up to stand beside her chair. He glares down at her, and the disparity of height is disconcerting.

"As if you're a bundle of rainbows and sunshine," Madge sneers. She glances back to Paylor, who seems to be bemused from the exchange.

"I did not realize hostility was so close to home," she says, raising an eyebrow at both of them. Had Madge been anybody else, she might have felt abashed from Paylor's implied reprimand. Instead, she only grimaces further.

Paylor looks to Gale. "Mr. Hawthorne…you did not bring up any objections about this position before. Shall I reconsider your detail for someone more emotionally and mentally capable?"

Gale's jaw clenches, and he clasps his hands behind his back once more, stiffening his posture like cement. "No, ma'am. I'm fully capable of putting aside differences of opinion in the face of the greater good."

It almost sounds sarcastic, but Gale maintains a stoic expression, as per usual.

Paylor narrows her eyes at him. She heard it, too. She crosses her arms and surveys him.

"Fine. Since this was your idea, I'll give you one chance. Screw it up, and I'll reassign you, Mr. Hawthorne."

He gives her a one deep nod of his head, almost mimicking a bow. "Understood."

Madge's thoughts pause for a moment. She stares at the side profile of Gale. _His_ idea? How? _Why?_

Madge faces forward again. The hits just kept coming. The world never seems to tire of tormenting her. A pool of absurd laughter starts to bubble up in her stomach. She is certain if Paylor sighed, she'd fall out of her chair.

"You will have another guard joining you, Miss Undersee. Her name is Johanna Mason. I believe if Mr. Hawthorne's detail with you is short-lived, she is certainly up to par. I doubt you will have any objection once you meet her."

Johanna Mason. That name is very familiar. Madge nods.

Paylor finishes the meeting with the date and time of the first inspection. On the lower eastside of the District, eight o'clock in the morning, next Wednesday if Madge could make that work. If not, Paylor hands over her contact information. Gale hands her his, too—grudgingly, she likes to think, though he gives nothing away underneath the careful stare of Paylor.

"Thank you very much for considering and trying this opportunity, Miss Undersee. This job will have its risk, and it can be dangerous, but you will be compensated well. I understand if you have any reservations going forward, or if you would like to change your mind. I do not want you to feel pressured into taking this job if you have any uncertainties or concerns," Paylor says, standing. Madge stands as well, and she gives Paylor a tight smile.

"I'm not concerned, ma'am. Whatever I can do to make this…place more bearable," Madge answers.

Paylor nods, seemingly satisfied with her answer. "I will contact you when the time gets closer."

A question hangs on the tip of Madge's tongue. Paylor must notice her hesitation, because she is silent and waits for her to speak.

"There are a handful of other individuals who have the same job as I do. Why me?"

Paylor watches her, considering, then merely shrugs. "Why _not_ you, Madge Undersee?"

The answer strikes her. It's oddly flippant and casual, as if the question didn't have any merit to begin with. It all sounds so simple that way. Why_ not_ her? Anyone could do it. Her name might as well have been plucked from a lottery bowl.

"Would you like an escort back to your office? Mr. Hawthorne—"

"No, thank you," Madge says, quick as lightning. "I can walk by myself just fine."

She doesn't mean to snap, so she turns her eye to Gale, hoping that Paylor realizes who the tone is directed.

Once she steps out onto the sidewalk outside, Madge blows out a deep breath through pursed lips. She places her hands on her hips and wonders what she's gotten herself into.


	4. chapter four

chapter four

* * *

"I don't believe you," Madge says. "You took this position to watch me explode."

She avoided contacting him the entire week until this morning, because she had to. She only talked to Paylor, because she's the only one who mattered. While Madge was very curious as to what Gale's angle was with this, coming up with the idea in the first place which still baffled her, she found she would probably be better off not knowing the inner workings of Gale Hawthorne. Besides, it's not like he'd tell her. Even worse, he probably wants her to ask so that he can lord it over her and avoid answering.

Gale hovers near the entrance to the building. They are near an older, war-torn structure. A housing unit that once held very expensive condos. Madge can spy the glitter of pure crystal through one of the holes on the second floor. The outside is made out of steel beams and chrome accents, the long line of windows shattered and gaping like a maw, bordered with broken glass teeth.

"You got me," he answers. He glances at his watch. "Johanna should be here soon. We'll wait."

"_You'll_ wait," she says. "I'm going to start."

She goes to walk past him, but he grabs her. She jerks and scuttles away.

"No, you're not. You're going to wait."

"What's the difference? You're here, aren't you?"

He glares at her. "Sure, it would give me great pleasure watching you be blown to smithereens. It wouldn't give me great pleasure to lose my job. So you're waiting."

"I don't give a shit about your job," she says, going past him again. This time when he grabs her, he holds on, his fingers digging into her shoulders. She clenches her teeth and thinks about baring them like an animal.

"Five. Minutes. Do you think you can wait, or do you want me to handcuff you, princess?"

"Handcuff," she says, looking straight up into his face, wondering if it's a bluff. "I'd much rather be held in custody than bend to your will."

The muscle in his jaw clenches and his grip is iron against the bone of her shoulders, and she thinks she can keep chipping away at him. What will he look like if she cracks him open? Will he be just as ugly as she feels, on the inside?

"If that isn't eye fucking, I don't know what is," a voice calls out. They turn to see who Madge assumes can only be Johanna Mason, and Madge recognizes her immediately. Her features are so striking and unique, her hair short, a tattoo creeping down her arm from underneath the sleeve of her shirt. Her heart-shaped face and almond eyes are beautiful, accented with sharpness and confidence. Madge immediately feels inadequate, looking at her.

Gale shoves Madge out of his grip, and she moves as far away as she possibly can.

"God, Johanna. That's disgusting."

Madge grimaces, rolling her shoulders to shake off the feeling of his fingers. "Oh, I don't know, Hawthorne. You're the one who was thinking about putting handcuffs on me. You sure you don't want to have your way with me?"

Madge isn't sure who she is when Gale's around. It's like she can say whatever she wants and whatever she's thinking. It falls out of her without trying, and she knows it must be because she can be as mean as she wants and it won't mean a thing. He'll give it back as much as he takes it.

Johanna hoots. "Handcuffs! Wow, Gale, kinky aren't you?" At Gale's sour face, she relents. "Okay, okay, I'll stop giving you a hard time, you big old baby." She shoves his shoulder and comes up to Madge.

"I'm Johanna Mason, the second half of your detail." She holds out her hand, and Madge shakes it. Johanna is smiling, but Madge can tell when she's being eyeballed. She tries to exude confidence, like Johanna so easily does, but she can't tell if she manages it.

"Madge Undersee. Great to meet you."

Johanna's eyes cut to Gale. "Anyone who can stand up to Gale like that is worthy of a two-man detail in my book." She grins at Madge. "He needs to be cut down, sometimes, right?"

Madge finds herself not having to try to smile this time. "Agreed."

Gale grunts. "The last thing I need is two women mouthing off at me. One is more than enough."

"Oh, you can't mean that!" Johanna cackles.

Madge shakes her head, turning to enter the building. "I'll be inside. I'll let you know if I find anything."

Surprisingly, Gale follows her. Madge stops and glares at him. He glares back.

"Are you stopping me, again?"

"No, I'm going in with you."

"Why?"

"There has to be one guard inside and one guard outside, Undersee."

"Can't Johanna come with me? She's much more tolerable than you."

"She's got a point," Johanna contributes.

Gale narrows his eyes. "First time. First detail. It's me on point this time. Next time, you and Johanna can giggle and paint your toenails for all I care."

Madge thinks about this. "This is about impressing your boss, isn't it? I get it now. Is there a promotion at the end of this? A raise?"

"No. This is out of the goodwill of my heart," he deadpans. "We're wasting time. Lead the way."

Madge relents, and they both file into the building. Madge pulls out her tablet from her satchel, drawing up the blueprint. Over the past week, Madge was given authorization to look through the past archives in an attempt to find relevant blueprints of District Two, in case any were available or salvaged from the reckoning of the war. In some crazy twist of fate, she was able to find a handful of District blueprints and drafts, old ideas and new. She chose the most complete one she could find, and while it is not an exact replica of this particular condo high-rise, it is very similar. She nearly memorized it the past few days, making notes in the margins about the areas with the most potential to have hidden devices, technology, explosives, or traps. Especially in buildings that have already been partially destroyed or wrecked, there was a high chance that there were more traps that had not been activated, had been deactivated, or were faulty. Madge is strangely excited about the prospect. How interesting would it be to find hidden traps or explosives in the walls? They'd be like little, dangerous treasures.

Walking into this building now, Madge wonders if it will be as simple as walking over a tripwire. One step, and could it be all over? Her heart spikes at the thought.

She steps carefully to the first corner she has marked on her blueprint. Not quite sure what to do, she begins to place her hands on the wall, placing pressure through her fingertips, trying to find an indentation that is out of place, or a paint chip, or a hairline crack, something that isn't consistent with the design. Any imperfection marring the structure.

This condo design relied on aesthetics—sleek lines, sharp corners, a color scheme of whites, grays, and blacks. Chrome accented the crown moldings. Furniture was symmetrical and pleasing to look at, but undoubtedly uncomfortable. The space was open wide, like a sea without an island. Looking at the place at face value, it would be hard to hide anything. If something is hidden underneath the marble flooring, she'll need to gently break into it. That will take some time. Madge follows along the wall to the black scorch marks that mar the dusty white. It seems some kind of fire had penetrated this first room, perhaps from a hand grenade. Some of the chairs and tables are broken and scattered along the white floors. She touches the soot, looking for any inactivated drones or missiles poking out of an indentation in the wall. Several minutes into her experimental searching, Gale finally says, "You know, you need to be careful with this."

Madge is hardly paying attention to him. She is much more focused on the mystery. She is becoming absorbed within it. Could she have missed the button by an inch? A quarter of an inch? Is there anything actually here, or is this place empty and deserted and normal?

"Hm," she says, distracted.

"I've been to these kinds of places before," he continues. "Don't take it lightly."

"Hm," she says again. Maybe if she presses up against this lip in the wall. Hm. No. She sighs. She stands and moves across the room slowly, putting her blueprint away for the moment. She eyes the ten foot ceiling, wishing she had x-ray vision. She walks through the wide open entrance from the living space to another living space and kitchen. The whole area is deficient of furniture, the space a large slab of white marble flooring and walls. No rug, no tables. One big, empty space. Madge's eyebrows knit together, and she stares at the openness. It feels like a trap. The space is too large and unnatural. She would never design a layout in quite this way. There should still be furniture, just like in the previous living area. There should be broken pieces littering the floor, but there's nothing. No debris, no trash. It's almost immaculate with its cleanliness in this room, and that makes it all the more suspicious.

Carefully, Madge walks along the walls bordering the space, touching and feeling, looking and trying to see. Her eyes keep straying to the middle of the room, beckoning her to walk over the tiles. There has to be something there. If she was a mastermind behind building death traps, what better way to effectively kill everyone in a room, if not placing it in the floor in the middle of the room, where it can swallow everyone whole? She feels it, like a hum in her bones, like intuition. Her arms prickle with it, and she gets goosebumps. The sensation is so odd, she can't help but wonder if it's her imagination.

"Is there anything around here that's heavy that I can throw?" Madge asks, looking toward the front room for Gale. It surprises her to see him standing at the entrance of the room she's in, watching her.

"There's some broken pieces of chair in here, but they aren't very substantial," he says.

"Right," she says. "Better than nothing." She goes back to the room and grabs one of the most intact chairs, which retains the entire back of the chair, half the seat, and two legs. "Hm," she mutters. "Should be fine if I throw it hard enough…"

Gale watches her before he realizes what she's doing. "Wait!"

She pauses right as she gets in place to throw the chair. She turns her head to glare at him.

He shakes his head. "You should probably throw that behind a barricade of some sort. If that holds a detonator and you manage to set it off, you really _will_ be blown to smithereens."

Madge lowers the chair, sighing. She's too ready to throw the damn chair that she doesn't really think when she says, "Well, it's not like anyone would miss me, anyway."

Then she picks up the chair again, and before Gale can protest, she throws it.

It clunks and it lands with a heavy thud, splintering and losing another leg, but nothing happens. No red light underneath the tile, no beep, no monstrous thing opening up to swallow them. Madge feels the disappointment with a morbid acuity.

"I was so certain," she says, frowning at the glassy tile and the broken debris of chair.

Suddenly, Gale is gripping her upper arm with tremendous force. Madge winces and exclaims, "What the hell, Hawthorne, let go of me!"

"That was so stupid and reckless. That could have been a death trap!" His eyes are fierce and angry, pinpricks in his skull.

"But it wasn't, was it?" she says back, just as fiercely. "Why are you even here if you're so afraid?"

"I'm not afraid," he nearly shouts. "That was idiotic. I thought you were smarter than that. It's not only your life at stake with this shit. You may not care, but I do."

"Then maybe you should send someone who doesn't!" she says, shoving him off of her. She feels a bright streak of triumph when he stumbles a bit. "Paylor asked me to do this, yes? Not you. She has the authority. If you disagree with my decisions, complain to her."

"You're insufferable," he hisses.

"You're one to talk," she spats back. "How about you stay in the front room and let me do my job?"

"Can't do that when you have a death wish, _princess_," he says. "I need to protect you for my _promotion._"

She can almost hear her teeth screech from grinding so hard. "Then don't expect me to listen to you."

"As if I would ever expect you to do anything I say."

"Good. Then take your opinion and shove it up your ass."

Madge's skin is crackling with anger and frustration—it's nearly uncontrollable. It hasn't been this bad before. She is so blind with rage—a strange kind of rage. It has no basis in logic or reason. She is in the wrong. She is reckless and stupid, and yet, she fights with Gale regardless. She could have killed them both, and she's mad at him for pointing it out. She's mad at him for caring.

She turns her eyes back onto the open space, with the maimed chair scattered around the floor. She knows its underneath. She knows it like the burning fire in the pit of her stomach. She has to break into the flooring. Remove pieces of the tile, one by one.

She's wearing a small toolbelt, with only a few basic items like a hammer and a wrench. She brought her duffle bag with most of the tools she uses when she's onsite at construction zones, after conferring with Paylor what might be important and essential for today's job. If the builders of this high-rise had put down this tile just like Madge and her team do nowadays, she was certain she could break into it most easily at the line of the wall or corners of the room...

"Hand me my duffle bag," she snaps at Gale, moving to the line of the wall. She begins to inspect the crown molding, the chrome, and the marble. Marble isn't the hardest to cut through, and is actually quite easy to manipulate. This shouldn't be too bad to do on her own.

The bag drops beside her with a loud clang. She nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Here," Gale snarls.

Madge does her best to ignore him, taking out the appropriate tools. She puts her gloves on, and she considers her goggles, but they always begin to fog up halfway through a work day, so she leaves them in the bag. She always seems to forget about getting new ones.

Without another word, she gets to work at breaking up the floor as carefully as she can. Once she's a quarter of the way to the middle of the room, Gale walks back to the front living area. When she gets halfway to her goal, Gale reappears against the entrance. Madge spares him a short glance, and he's covered with white dust. His black hair looks gray.

"There's a barricade waiting for you, if you decide you want to use it."

Madge furrows her brow at a particularly stubborn piece of tile. "No, thanks."

"It's mostly for me. I have a family I want to see again."

"You say that like they want to see you again, too."

"Sometimes I feel sorry for you, and then I immediately forget why."

She removes another tile. Only two more to go before she hopes to find…something. It is tedious work, but she likes the tedium. She can watch the progress, just like she can watch the mileage build when she runs. It's cathartic.

"You can feel sorry?" she asks. "I didn't know you could after you massacred all those people."

At that, Gale leaves the room in a barely contained growl. A moment later, he stalks back in.

"I didn't decide when they were going to use my bomb."

She loosens another tile. One more, one more. She's so close, she can almost see a glint of metal under the next tiles if she squints.

"So you're saying they used you, like a pawn?" She begins the process of removing the next tile, chipping away at the grout underneath. Steady, steady. "I wouldn't say that's any better. Sounds like you're weak."

She can feel his death stare on her back, on the vertebrae of her spine. She bets he's breaking her bones in his mind, one by one, just as she chips away at these tiles. She gets an odd little rush from all this—walking on the edge of possible danger underneath her fingertips, and kindling the fire underneath Gale's skin. If she pokes and prods long enough, she wonders when she will activate the detonator inside of him. He's much like these marble tiles—glittering and seemingly impenetrable, but in reality, very malleable with the right tools.

_Chip, chip, chip,_ goes the last tile, and she eases it away gently, as gently as she can, moving so slow as not to even stir the air, and then—

Nothing. Nothing at all. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, trying to reign in her frustration. Maybe just a few more tiles. Maybe it's off-center. Yes, that makes sense. Why make it so obvious and put something terrifying and deadly right where you would expect it to be?

She turns at a forty-five degree angle, and begins dismantling the adjacent tiles. It's underneath one of these. She knows it, in the deep, dark chambers of her heart. If she was Snow, she'd want to murder someone in this beautiful, stark, pristine living room. Thick red blood on polished white marble.

She continues on and on, and she's nearly done with the entire room before she finally lets out the growl that had been manifesting inside of her. There is nothing in here. Not even a hint. Her gloves are covered with marble dust and grout, and they are beginning to lose traction when she tries to remove the last bits of tile. In a fit of exhausted anger, she rips them off her hands and slaps them onto the ground beside her.

There are still three tiles left that she wants to remove, and once those are gone, she will finally admit defeat. She glances up and sees Gale lingering in the front room. He's looking out one of the busted windows, as still as a statue. She's surprised he's still inside. She glances at her watch. It's been around two hours since they've been here, and they haven't even touched the entire first floor.

She moves onto the last tiles, _chip, chip, chip_, removing the pieces, putting them off to the side, continuing like a conveyor belt. The second to last tile cuts her hand, the sensitive area between her thumb and her index finger. It's deep enough to bleed a little, so she squeezes her hand and then wipes it on her trousers before continuing. It throbs with the last few pieces of tile, and drops get smeared on the dusty white of them. She pauses and realizes she's made the cut worse. The blood makes a slow descent down her palm and to her forearm. She sighs and makes a fist again, waiting for the bleeding to stop.

Something begins to niggle at her. Her eyes find the tile with the small blood smear. One of her fingerprints decorate the edge. She eyes the floor, now barren with the sandy gray color of grout and cement. There's something she's missing. She knows it.

_Thick red blood on white tile. _The thought dashes through her mind. She stares at her hand and the floor around her.

"Dammit, Undersee, what did you do now?" Gale says, breaking her reverie. She jerks her head toward him, blinking.

"What?"

He walks forward. "Your hand. What did you do?"

"Oh, uh…" she starts. "It's nothing." She holds her hand open so he can see the shallow cut, and she doesn't think about the drop of blood that falls from her hand. "I just…" she glances at the grout, and her eyes find the small drop of blood, and it's very red—

_Red blood, white tile._

"Get back," she commands.

Gale stops. "What?"

"Take cover. Get back. I think I—"

The explosion is muffled and weak, but it's close enough to send Madge flying into the wall. Her back collides with it, and her head smacks into it from the force. The wind is knocked out of her, and she can't breathe. She sees blackness and stars, and she thinks she goes blind for a good minute or two. Her ears ring, and it pierces into her throbbing skull.

"Goddamnit, Undersee," she hears, only because Gale's so close. She feels herself being lifted upright, and the room spins and twirls around her. She groans at the light coming in through the windows, and she squints. She tries to breathe, and it's a chore. Her ribs don't want to allow it. Her hands curl into a fist on a clothed arm, and she holds on for dear life.

"Hey," he says softly. "Open your eyes. Keep breathing. You're gonna be fine."

It doesn't feel like it. It doesn't feel like it at all, but as the room comes back into focus, she can begin to see how localized the explosion was. The middle of the room is blown to bits, and there is a large crater in the floor, going down into the ground. The walls surrounding them are scorched, and the black rim bordering the crater reminds her of smudged eyeliner.

"I knew it," she rasps, placing a hand on her ribs. "It was the middle."

Gale glances around them, raising an eyebrow. He scoffs, but then he smiles. "God, you're crazy, Madge. Good thing it was so small. How'd you find it?"

Johanna runs into the room then, immediately coming to their side. "Shit. What happened?" She gives Gale a brief examination, concluding no serious injuries.

Before she can conduct one on Madge, Madge raises her right hand. "Blood," she mumbles. "Triggered with blood."

Gale frowns at it. He turns her head back and forth, eyes needle points in their scrutiny of her face. When he concludes she's fine, he glances behind him, surveying the ground again. Johanna stands and walks along the crater.

"Obvious when you think about it," he says. "It's Snow after all, the sadistic fuck."

Madge shakes her head, trying to get her eyes to stop swimming. It's hard for her to concentrate, and a sudden bout of nausea grips her stomach like a vice.

Gale must notice something wrong, because he situates her in his arms and goes to stand. She tries to fight it by saying, "I can walk just fine, Hawthorne," but the words come out garbled and dizziness hits her again, and she's honestly not sure if she could walk just fine.

He ignores her. "Call the medic, Johanna. I'm going to take her outside."

"Already did," Johanna calls. "I'll notify Paylor. She's in a meeting, but she'll probably want to see this for herself."

"I'm sure," Gale says. "Make sure you set up the markers and secure a sample for—"

"I know what I'm doing, Gale. I have it under control."

"Fine," he says, and Madge squints again once they're outside. The light is much harsher and direct. She groans.

"Can you please put me down?" she grits. "I'm going to hurl."

"I'm shocked. I didn't know_ please_ was in your vocabulary," he says, but he obeys and sets her down on the ground. He's actually gentle when he does. Madge would say something about it if she wasn't so focused on not upchucking her breakfast.

She leans forward and places her head between her knees. She tries to breathe through her nose and out through her mouth. She's not sure when the medics arrive, but she's eventually taken to the back of the medic van, where they deem it is necessary for her to go to the hospital to make sure she has no broken bones or ruptured organs. The only thing they can determine in the back of the van is that she definitely has a concussion.

"How'd you know? Because my head slammed into a _wall_?" she snaps, and the emergency medic tries to pacify her. Madge glares at him, and then she glares over at Gale, who's standing by the open van door with crossed arms. He's smiling again. Who knew her pain could give him such amusement? Oh, wait, that's right, she _did_ know.

"Why are you smiling?" she snarls at him. "I should have puked on you."

If anything, this stokes his amusement even more. "You're going to be just fine, Undersee."

She grimaces at him. "Wow, do you sound happy? I didn't know there could be such a thing."

He stares at her for a moment. "Had you died, I wouldn't have gotten that fat bonus from Paylor."

"I wish I died, just to spite you."

"Don't say that. It wouldn't have been worth it," he says. Before she can retort, he continues. "We'll be in touch with you once you're released from the hospital." He steps back, and the medic closes the door before she can protest.


	5. chapter five

chapter five

* * *

They have Madge stay overnight at the hospital, and when she's finally released the next morning, she walks exactly five steps out of the main building before she receives a page.

**Survive the night?**

If she didn't know any better, she'd think he was watching her, somehow. She responds immediately.

**Did you pray for a brain bleed? **

**No. Bonus remember?**

She rolls her eyes. She finds Paylor in her contacts and prepares another page, but Gale intercedes her.

**If available – come to Paylor's office.**

She sighs. She's in borrowed hospital clothes, carrying her dirtied government issued jumpsuit in a generic, recycled tote bag. They allowed her to shower last night once they deemed her in stable condition, but she still feels the hospital ilk attached to her pores.

Her apartment is twenty minutes in the opposite direction of Paylor's office. It will more than likely take her an hour to arrive at Paylor's if she takes the detour, and she's still exhausted. She may sit on her bed, take the prescribed pain medication, and not make it out until tomorrow.

She contemplates for another minute before she responds.

**Be there in ten.**

When she arrives to Paylor's floor, she runs into Paylor herself. She's walking up from the opposite direction of the hallway, carrying a packet of papers.

"Miss Undersee," she says, and she gives her a generous smile. It crinkles the sides of her eyes. "I'm so glad you could make it so soon. Please, let's go to my office. Are you feeling alright?"

"Oh, yes, just fine, thank you," Madge says, clearing her throat. She's not used to this—kind words and askance for her wellbeing.

"They have great tea, here. My assistant—it's odd, I still can't get used to having one. She can make a mean cup, if you'd like. We also have coffee, and we have cold compresses in the break room, should you need one."

"Oh," Madge blinks. "Er, no, I think I'm alright. Thank you. They gave me pain killers at the hospital."

Paylor nods. "Very good." They arrive at her office, and Madge follows behind Paylor, who gestures for her to sit in the chair in front of her desk. "You've not sustained any major injuries?"

Madge shrugs a shoulder. She's not sure what she should disclose, but she decides on the most relevant. "A minor concussion and a couple of fractured ribs. Nothing major."

Paylor tuts, furrowing her brow. "Fractured ribs. I am sorry for that. Did they give you the proper treatment?"

Madge frowns. She's not wise in the way of health care. "They wrapped me up with some sort of salve medication. They said it cuts the healing time in half—that's all I know."

Paylor nods slowly. "Good, good. Don't worry—our Division covers medical costs for on the job injuries. Worker's compensation."

Madge is surprised. "That's not necessary—"

Paylor holds up a hand. "Please. I insist. That's how it works around here, Miss Undersee. Besides, we owe you a tremendous amount. What you found will save countless lives, beyond a doubt. We've already found several similar mechanisms in surrounding neighborhoods and buildings, with blood being the main triggering factor for either deactivated or inert traps and explosive devices." Paylor leans forward, her eyes glowing. Madge is struck by the subtle power and passion rippling inside them. "Miss Undersee, you did in a few hours what we haven't been able to in months. I want to thank you personally. I know you took this job on your own accord, but never did I think we would get results so quickly. And, I assure you, you will be compensated very well."

Madge is teetering off balance. She doesn't know what to say, in one of the first times of her life.

"I…it was…thank you, but…" she tries, feeling like a fish out of water.

"Undersee, speechless? What a thing to behold."

A quick, fiery burn runs up her spine, and Madge jerks her head toward Gale, who has appeared beside her.

"Mr. Hawthorne," Paylor gestures to the seat beside Madge. "Please sit. I'm glad you could join us."

Gale nods and takes the seat. Madge notices a line of three stitches on the side of his left forehead, near his temple. His hair has been shaved along the line to accommodate them. She hadn't realized he'd been injured in the blast, as well.

"I haven't missed much, have I?" he asks.

"I was just finishing with Miss Undersee's accolades," Paylor smiles. "Nothing you needed to be present for."

"Good," he says, settling into the chair.

Madge finally clears her throat. "I thank you, Commander Paylor, but it was truly sheer luck that I was able to figure it out. Anyone could have done what I did."

Paylor answers slowly. "Perhaps. But it wasn't anyone. It was you."

The subject is settled. Her tone is final. Madge swallows, but she continues to feel unworthy for the adulation. It feels like a mistake.

"Now, onto the next sets of business. If you are still on board with the job, Miss Undersee, our Division is looking to eradicate any and all traps in different sectors of the District over the course of the next six months. While what you found helped us with a large chunk of the construction work, not all buildings were fashioned in the same way. You will maintain a guard, but I can also put together a team to help you if you are uncomfortable asking your own construction team. You can also remain a solo worker, as well. The choice is yours for whichever way you think you'd work best, but I would encourage, however, that you are not alone in this process. I will disclose that compensation will be split between you and your team, if you choose to use one."

Madge opens her mouth, shaking her head.

"It was never about the money. I'm simply doing a job."

Paylor's eyes harden. "A high-risk job. I hope yesterday proved that."

"Of course, but it's only high-risk if—" Madge stops, swallowing her quick retort. She clenches her hands in fists.

_It's only high-risk if you're living for something._ Madge is not so naïve to think she's more than a minion in the grand scheme of things. She is another set of eyes and hands, easily replaceable if she manages to expire. Anyone could do her job.

Paylor raises a brow. "If…?"

"If I miscalculate," she says, amending her statement. "I will do my best not to fail these next few months."

"You will take the job, then?"

Madge nods. "Certainly."

Paylor looks very pleased. "Very good. I'm happy to have you on our team."

"I appreciate this opportunity."

"Will you need time to decide on a team?"

Madge hesitates. "No. I'd prefer working on my own."

Paylor frowns a little, but she says, "You're quite sure about this?"

Madge sits up a little straighter in her chair. "Yes, ma'am. Most all of my colleagues have family. I do not want them to be placed in any unwarranted danger so soon after the war."

"I see," Paylor says, and her eyes flit to Gale for a moment. "I understand these sentiments."

Gale has remained quiet during their conversation. Madge feels suspicious, and when she glances to him, he's giving her a peculiar look. It's as if he's dissecting her. She gives him a glare, and he furrows his brows.

Madge is dismissed not long after the end of their exchange, debriefed on the next assignment that is to be done the next week if she is feeling up to it—in which she responds that she will be. She will be sent more information over the span of the next few days once everything is secured.

"Mr. Hawthorne, please escort Miss Undersee home. She is still recovering from yesterday, and I like to take care of my employees," Paylor says.

Madge immediately protests. "Excuse me, ma'am, but I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself—"

"That's an order, both of you," Paylor commands, and her tone brokers no argument. Even Madge knows when she's lost. She bites her tongue and proceeds to leave the office. Gale follows closely behind her.

"Do you like to be her errand boy?" she retorts, once they are in the elevator.

Gale stares at the elevator doors, his arms clasped behind his back. "It has it's perks."

"Enlighten me."

"Well, for one, I get to escort ungrateful young ladies home to their apartments."

She glares at the side of his face. He is very good at avoiding eye contact. "I am not inviting you in."

"Good. I was worried about how I was going to reject you."

She crosses her arms in front of her chest, and she readjusts her tote bag hanging on her shoulder. When they reach the ground floor, Madge turns to him.

"It takes me twenty minutes to get home from here. You can hang out in the city for forty minutes, come back to the office, and get back to your job without having to actually escort me." She shrugs. "I won't tell."

He narrows his eyes at her. "I don't take orders from you, Undersee."

"What's the difference? Paylor won't know."

Gale sighs, gesturing in front of them. "Come on. The longer you try to do this, the longer it'll take before we can be rid of each other."

Madge bites the meat of her inner lip. "When did you become such a rule follower?"

"Since the world is trying its best to be a better place," he growls. "Now, move."

He pushes her forward, and she stumbles a bit, squinting her eyes at him. She finally caves and begins to walk. Thankfully, he takes a slower tempo behind her, and she doesn't have to deal with him walking beside her.

Halfway to her apartment, she asks something that's been bothering her. "What did Paylor mean when she said it was your idea?"

"My idea for what?"

"You know what. This whole thing. Me being the person you chose for this project."

Gale passively shrugs, and they are walking side by side now. "Paylor asked for names. I gave her yours. She went with it. She talked with your boss. She liked what she heard. That's about the full story."

Madge doesn't believe that for a second. "No. You gave her my name for a reason, didn't you? Why?"

He grunts. "I knew you were in Reconstruction. I knew the risks of the job Paylor was wanting to implement. I knew you'd take it."

He talks in short, decisive sentences. It gives her nothing to go by—no emotion, no traction, no hints. "How'd you know I'd take it?"

"I don't know, Undersee. Call it intuition."

"I don't think males have intuition."

"Then, what? Deductive reasoning?"

"For it to be deductive, there has to be information to deduce _from_ to form a real conclusion."

Gale finally sighs. "Maybe it was because I knew you…gave Katniss the mockingjay pin. You cared then. I figured you'd probably care, now."

This gives Madge a healthy pause. Gale had taken the time and thought about this. Perhaps he was right with his reasoning, after all, from such a small fact in her life.

Once they reach her apartment complex, Madge makes to leave him on the front steps. She walks up to her door before he says, "I know there are a lot of people who want to make this shithole better for their loved ones and families. You should think about asking people from your team. You never know. Some people might want the opportunity to decide for themselves."

Madge grits her teeth. She turns, facing him, and they are in a very peculiar spot. Him, glaring at her on her porch. It's not District Twelve, the strawberries are missing, she is defiant and not ignoring him, but it almost feels the same. "If you and Paylor want more people so badly, then why don't you ask them, yourself?"

"We want to implement the process, not impede it. Believe it or not, people respect you, but if it's going to make the job more difficult for you or for anyone else, then we don't want to do it. Like we mentioned before, we don't want any more casualties than is strictly necessary. I just want you to be aware of the options you have at your disposal, and to not…be afraid of those options."

"Options," she says, the word rolling off her tongue with disdain. She doesn't really like options. She likes a single, blazing path. "I chose my option. I am not _afraid_ of them. Respect my decision and stop trying to change it," she snaps, shoving her keys into her door and unlocking it. She steps inside and slams the door on him before he can say anything else.

She rubs the bridge of her nose, and she takes out a few pain pills. She throws them into her mouth and chokes a little as she swallows them dry. She doesn't care if adding team members will help her process. No one else is dying because of her. She won't allow it. It will be her and her alone.

Just as it's always been.


	6. chapter six

chapter six

* * *

Madge falls into her new role as if she's always meant to be there. She does her construction work four days of the week, and she does her work with Paylor and her company one day a week.

Her relationship with Gale stays the same. Mostly. They shoot barbs at one another and bicker for the time that they have together and fill the rest of the time with silence or well-timed glares. Madge gets to know Johanna much more, and this is mostly due to Johanna's personality. She is a force, becoming a whirlwind into Madge's relatively calm life. She butts in to help Madge when she doesn't want it, and while Madge stubbornly halts Gale when he tries to help her dismantle plaster, drywall, or wooden floorboards at least half the time, she never seems to be able to shut down Johanna as easily. Johanna ignores her acidic protests as if Madge is a petulant child.

And, truly, sometimes Madge feels like she is.

Johanna even invites Madge to bars and to dinner after work.

"Is Gale going to be there?" Madge asks.

Johanna shrugs. "Probably."

"Then no, thanks."

Johanna shakes her head, smiling. "Damn, you're cold. I like you, Madge."

It's a month into her new job when Madge finds herself in another accident. It's a minor explosion, just like the first one, but it refractures her healing ribs, and it makes her think she'll never heal. Fortunately, Johanna was in another room and Gale was outside.

"This job is gonna kill you, Undersee," Gale says, frowning at her as she's deposited in the back of the medic van. It's a weirdly repetitive feeling sitting on the stretcher.

"Don't jump for joy so soon, Hawthorne," she says. "Besides, wasn't that the point?"

The look he gives her makes her uncomfortable.

"Is that what you think?"

Her back involuntarily straightens at the disbelief in his words. "I'm expendable."

"Madge, just because you don't..._we_ don't like each other doesn't mean I want you to die. Shit," he says, shaking his head, his mouth curling up in incredulity. "I knew you were crazy, but…"

Johanna comes up behind Gale, slinging her arm across his shoulders. "You _are_ crazy, Madge, but that's why we like you so much. You simultaneously care and give no fucks. You're going back to the hospital in record time, and you somehow always manage to find something when we're not around. We're paid to protect you, but I'd do it for free," she grins toothily.

They make an odd pair, standing before her in the opening of the van. She isn't sure what to feel, looking between them. Johanna, and her bluntness and enthusiasm, her ease and confidence. Gale, and his seriousness, his brooding, his sarcasm. His eyes aren't as passive as they once were. Still concealed and hiding, but he's allowing more of himself to be revealed these days.

She wonders if she's let herself show, too. What do they see, their eyes like mirrors? Do they see what she does when she deciphers herself in her mirror?

"No, you should be paid," she says, her voice a bit scratchy. She clears it. "To deal with me."

"See!" Johanna exclaims. "Such humility! Sheesh. Drinks on me when you're out of the hospital. I mean it. I will drag you there if I have to."

Madge looks between them one more time. A soft, slight smile graces her face without her having to try.

"Only if you drag me," she says.

Johanna gives her a look. "Deal. Let's find some cute boys. No, _men._ Let's find some men."

Madge is sure Johanna will have them flock to her with a crook of her finger.

"Whatever," Madge allows. She glances back to Gale, who has crossed his arms over his chest. He's shaking his head, but he gives her a soft smile, too.

Then the doors close, and the van drives her to the hospital.

* * *

Madge isn't sure if she's disappointed that Johanna keeps her word, or if she's pleased. She doesn't really want to go to a bar, but the idea that Johanna wants her to be there with her, without compensation, makes Madge feel lighter and uplifted. She's never had anyone do this, before.

Johanna ends up plying her with drink after drink, and they're laughing and sitting precariously on their stools. Madge can't remember what they're laughing at, but it's hilarious. After a time, Madge feels like she's floating along, her tongue loosened, her words muddled. The boys they had been making fun of earlier are beginning to look cute, and Madge realizes how dangerous this drinking has gotten if she thinks _those_ boys are _cute._

The laughter gone, Madge hisses, "Johanna. The boys. They are looking again."

"Oooooh," Johanna drawls. "Get them to buy us some drinks. C'mon."

"Me?" Madge whines. "But you're so much hotter."

Johanna guffaws. "Whatever, goldie. We are _both_ super hot. Hey, what if we get them to buy us food? I'm starving."

Madge contemplates with all the deep thought that her drunken mind can manage. Is she hungry? Her eyes fall to the boys glancing at them. She pouts.

"I haven't had a boyfriend in so long. But my boyfriends sucked, and I didn't even like them. I don't want to have another one."

"Madge," Johanna cries. "It's just food! Besides, they're gross, I'd never let you be their girlfriend. What kind of friend would I be if I let that weird, skinny dude take you home? Ew!"

Madge snorts, and then she starts laughing. Johanna begins to laugh with her.

Abruptly, Johanna stops laughing and lifts a finger into the air. "I know! I always make Gale order me pizza when this happens. We need to get out of their clutches, Madge, or they'll never leave us alone." Her eyes dart very non-surreptitiously to the boys. Madge shushes her.

"Johanna, quiet! They'll see you looking if you're loud."

Johanna raspberries at her. "Ew, no! Okay, Gale it is." She begins to pull out her work phone.

"Gale?" Madge screeches. "No! He's even worse!"

"What!" Johanna laughs. "No, he's the best. And I mean, _the best_. He'll do whatever you want, and he's great to look at." She waggles her eyebrows.

Madge shakes her head so much, she almost falls out of her stool. "Nope. He's terrible. No good. I'd rather go home with Mister Beanpole."

Johanna snorts. "Beanpole!" She begins to dial through her snorts.

Madge is almost forced back into sobriety as she reaches for her phone. "Johanna!"

Johanna jerks away from her, waving the phone up in the air away from her grasp. "No way! Gale will save us. It's like he's addicted to saving women in need. Such a weirdo, but he'll pay for the pizza."

Madge isn't even sure she knows how to order pizza. She continues to scramble for the phone. "No! He's gross! I don't like him!"

"Bullshit you don't!" Johanna cackles, spinning away from her and securing the phone near her chest. She's almost pushed in all the numbers to contact Gale. "You totally think he's hot! You always look like you're going to eat him with your eyes."

"Only because I want him to burn up and die!" she screams, poking around Johanna's ribs, trying to find any sensitive areas. Johanna squirms away, running toward the door. Madge is hot on her heels, and if she looks away from the floor the whole room spins and spins.

"You can't fool me, Madge. Think of the sex! It would be explosive."

The sobriety Madge felt before is again muffled with a deep flush running up her neck. Her thoughts are as clear and truthful as drunken thoughts can be.

"I don't even know what good sex is, so…probably?"

Johanna's jaw drops. "You didn't enjoy your sex?"

Madge frowns at Johanna's shock. "I dunno if I'm supposed to. I think I'm physically disabled for pleasure."

Her words come out warbled and mangled, but Johanna seems to understand her.

"Madge, no! You need to enjoy sex! I'm sure Gale would be cool with it. He likes to think he's amazing."

"Er…hello?" a voice comes out of the phone Johanna seems to have forgotten as she holds it aloft. "Johanna, I swear, if you're drunk again…"

"Gale!" she sings. "Pizza, your place? Please? We'll find a cab, be there in ten, you are amazing in bed!" Then Johanna hangs up.

Madge splutters and then bends over laughing. "Johanna, I haven't laughed this much in ever." Her laughter halts. "Wait, are we really going to Gale's place?" An emotion, similar to dread but much more blunted, curls in her stomach. "Johanna, no, don't make me. _Please._"

She smiles evilly at her. "I told you I would drag you to find some cute men. Gale's a cute man. He's also awkward as hell. This is gonna be so much fun."

Madge grabs Johanna's shoulders and shakes her. "You are the worst, I hate you! Ugh, but have I told you how gorgeous you are? It's so unfair!"

They begin to tell each other how beautiful the other is, and somewhere in between those long declarations, Johanna manages to hail a taxi.

And suddenly, like with any drunken stupor, it takes no time at all to arrive, to knock on Gale's door, and to be answered by Gale himself.

The god of sobriety nudges Madge again, but the inordinate amount of alcohol she consumed earlier that evening wins out. She swears drunkenness is, in part, a state of mind. She wants to remain drunk, because she never gets drunk, so drunk she shall be, and with that drunkenness comes terrible, more realistic consequences of drunken burden—which, coincidentally, is why she never gets drunk.

Now, here she is, looking at Gale Hawthorne with swimming eyes. He's different this way. He's tall, overpowering, dark, and he fills his doorway with an effortless ease. He looks over them with eyes that are brilliantly silver, a liquid mercury. The lamplight filtering through the doorway behind him borders him with a gilded glow, painting the black strands of hair yellow and white. The sight of him strikes her right in the middle of her stomach like an unguarded punch. She purses her lips. She may need to throw up.

"Gale," Johanna cries, pouncing into his arms with a hug. "Please tell me you ordered meat lovers."

Gale chuckles, shoving Johanna off of him. It's a real smile, and Madge blinks at it. Good grief, he's—_not _handsome.

"I always get you the meat lovers."

"Praise you," Johanna says, pushing her way into the room.

"Undersee," Gale greets, his smile still lingering. "Johanna really did drag you, didn't she?"

"She brought a lasso," she slurs, peering up at him. "Are you really going to let _me _in your apartment? A mortal enemy?"

The glow from the lamplight gives his face a softened tone. It's like he's looking at her without any shield or armor, and she thinks she's going to puke again.

"Why not? I've lived this long," he answers, turning partly to give her space to walk through the doorway. "Think I'll risk it."

"I'm shocked," she says, walking toward the opening leisurely, even though it really does feel like a wolf's den, and he's going to eat her and it will potentially be awful and glorious, and even though her physical sensations are numbed, her emotions are uncovered like frayed wiring from a broken cord. It's new and electric, and it burns like a finger in an outlet, like a slow caress down her spine—and it must be because she's seeing him with these drunken goggles that her mind is freeing itself of its erected confines. Because he _is_ handsome, and he'll never be her type, and she's never been of value to anyone she ever cared about.

That's why she never drinks, she remembers. Because it's the only time she begins to believe she can be.

She stops in the middle of the doorway, facing him. "Shocked," she repeats. "But a good shock. Like a zap. Like that feeling you get when someone gives you a compliment that they mean, really mean. Or when you eat that really good ice cream from that one café."

Gale continues to smile at her, and it's like a gleaming crescent moon. "You're cute when you're drunk."

_Zap_. She squints her eyes, poking him in the chest. "Yeah, like that."

He brushes her hand away, placing the other on the small of her back and leading her into his apartment.

"Alright, princess. Go enjoy your pizza with Johanna."

"You can't tell me what to do," she says. "But I am deciding that I'm eating pizza with Johanna."

Johanna is already stuffing her face on the couch in the living room. She's sunken in the depths, holding a plate with five pieces on it. Madge squeals and runs to the pizza boxes. She opens up another and the glorious aroma of cheese and bread fills her nostrils with a sense of comfort and mouthwatering addiction.

She pulls a piece off and fights with the cheese that pulls and dangles. "You guys, I haven't had pizza in _months_."

Johanna makes a face. "Who are you?"

"I don't know," she says, inhaling the piece in her hand and going for another. "I guess sometimes pizza is too good for me."

Gale comes around her, grabbing a piece for himself. "Pizza isn't too good for anyone."

She squints at him again, pointing her pizza at him. "You _would_ say something like that."

He raises a brow. "What does that mean?"

"Johanna!" she cries, running to her. She jumps on the cushion beside her. "Help. He's harassing me. I knew this would happen."

"He bought us pizza! He can harass you all he wants."

Madge gasps and almost chokes on her bite. "How dare you."

"I mean, look at him. Don't you want him to harass you?" Johanna elbows her hard in her ribs, and Madge can feel the sting of the fractures through her blunted pain receptors.

"Ouch." She gently touches her side. "Stop. They still hurt."

"Oh, shit, sorry. I forgot."

"S'fine," she mumbles into the lip of cheese. "Pizza will make it better."

"Or more alcohol!" Johanna says gleefully, standing up and hopping to Gale's kitchen area. "Where're your goods, Gale? I know you have a stash."

Gale sighs, but he doesn't seem too bothered about it as he points to a cabinet.

"What'd I tell you, Madge?" Johanna says, winking. "The best."

Gale raises a brow between both of them. "What have you both been saying behind my back?"

Johanna ducks her whole head into the cabinet, and Madge hears a lot of glass clinking. She puckers her lips and says, "The usual. I hate your guts and Johanna loves them."

"Liar," Johanna hisses, then she sings a tune while she gathers glasses and unscrews the top to a tequila bottle.

"Sounds accurate," Gale says.

Madge points at him. "Correct! At least someone here has some sense, because I do not."

Gale is giving her a funny look. She crosses her eyes at him, and he laughs. She's almost terrified at herself for liking it. Then he comes to sit by her on the couch, and she likes that even more.

_What is wrong with you?_ she thinks, and then realizes she doesn't care because she won't remember this, anyway. Any cute boy giving her attention would do, and tonight just so happens to be Gale.

_Those other boys gave you attention, and you didn't want it, _some wicked, terrible part of her sober subconsciousness says. She promptly tells it to shut up.

"Have you ever been drunk before?" Gale asks her.

She narrows her eyes at him. She can smell his cologne this close. Cedar, woodsy, spice. It drills into her nostrils like a nail. "As a matter of fact, yes, I have, thank you. I'm not_ that _inexperienced."

"I didn't say you were. Just curious."

"Why aren't _you_ drinking?"

He shifts. "I used to drink a lot."

Johanna shuttles over and sits on the last available cushion on the end, shoving one filled glass to Madge. She isn't sure what it is, but her taste buds are burned alive, and she can't really taste any alcohol anymore.

"Gale was an angsty little fucker who came to District Two banished and alone," Johanna titters, rolling her eyes at Gale's glare. "Oh, please, you know it's true. Paylor found you asleep in a booth at a bar."

"That was _once._ Not the best time of my life."

"But isn't it fun when we drink each other under the table?" Johanna prods him like cattle. "Drinking is fun when you're not alone and stuck in the past, all _woe is me_. Please. You both still need to grow up."

Madge frowns at this. "I _have_ grown up, and I'm still sad. Why doesn't it go away?"

Johanna slings her arms around her. "Sadness will always be here. That's why you have me. Us," she corrects. "I mean, I can't drink alone. I go home with too many people, and it's probably the loneliest thing I do."

Madge snorts. "At least people choose you. I've never been anyone's first choice in my entire life."

Johanna kisses her cheek. "How about you be mine? My first choice for a drinking partner."

Madge begins to smile. It feels odd to hug someone, and to say such nice things to them that she means, but she wraps her arms around Johanna's torso and squeezes. "Okay."

"Y'all are a pair," Gale says after a moment.

"Aw, are you lonely, too, Gale?" Johanna hums. She opens her other arm. "Join us."

He gives them a look, and he must see the stare that Madge gives him because he says, "I need to be as drunk as you guys are before I get this sentimental."

Johanna blows out air through pursed lips. "As if you have the willpower to keep away from two amazingly good looking ladies on your couch."

"No, keep him away from us," Madge groans in a muffled mumble against Johanna's neck.

"The ice princess has spoken," Gale says.

"Hey!" she protests. "I'm not made of ice. Take that back."

"You are pretty chilly, Madge, but that's something I love about you," Johanna grins. "Eat shit, Gale."

Madge feels her eyes pop out of her head. "You love me? Everyone who's ever loved me is dead."

"Oh, my God, Madge, you're going to make me cry," Johanna says.

At the words, Madge feels like she will, too, a threatening well of tears forming behind her eyes. She sniffs loudly and untangles herself from Johanna, reaching for her tequila drink. After a few gulps, she states, "I think I love you, too."

Johanna makes an odd, strangled noise, and Madge cries out and they hug again. Gale rolls his eyes, but he's laughing at them.

"I swear, you two are the most bizarre people I've ever met," he says.

"You are so jealous. Count yourself lucky we chose to sit on your couch at two a.m." Johanna shakes her fist at him.

"Yeah!" Madge says, backing her up. "You are so lucky that the ice princess made your couch cold and frozen."

Gale shakes his head. "Yeah, okay, I get it. I'm very blessed."

"Don't be an ass! Say it like you mean it!" Madge says. "This is a one-time thing, you know."

"Oh, it is? Here I thought you wouldn't be able to resist my couch after this."

"Ha-ha," she says, narrowing her eyes at him. "In your dreams, Hawthorne."

"How'd you know that was in my dreams?"

"Oh, my god, you are so cheesy."

"Ladies seem to like it, and you're a lady."

"Did you just call me a lady? That's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"I always call you princess, and I mean it."

She shoves him. "Oh, whatever, you lie."

Johanna sighs. "You guys are doing it again."

Madge gasps. "Doing what?"

"That thing you both do that makes the tension so thick I can hardly breathe," she says.

Madge recoils. "I thought you were my friend!"

"Of course I am, and that's why I'm telling you the truth."

"Ugh," Madge grumbles, crossing her arms and sinking into her cushion.

"I think you've got it wrong this time, Johanna," Gale states. Madge perks up at this, because they finally might be at an agreement.

"Hmph. I'll admit defeat when I stop choking," she says with an air of mock condescension. Then she chuckles and then Madge chuckles and suddenly they're best friends again.

Eventually, Johanna dozes on the side of the couch as they watch a pre-war movie. Movies have started to become something, again, after they dug some up from the past. Madge enjoys them—the strange moving pictures that don't contain propaganda or brainwashing. They merely contain stories of all different kinds of things. Fiction, nonfiction, people, animals.

They are in the middle of a particularly grueling torture scene, where the man took his woman's place so she couldn't be hurt. Madge suddenly thinks of something, and then blurts in a whisper, "Do you remember when you were tortured in the square?"

She watches Gale shift in surprise. He looks at her, furrowing his brows. "Uh, yes. Why?"

Madge is still a little tipsy, but it's fading away. She wishes she could get up and make herself a drink, but she's very cozy on this couch, Gale is still sitting close beside her, and she doesn't want to get up. She also won't make a drink as good as Johanna can, and now it's too late because she's sleeping.

"Just curious." She glances at his wrists, trying to see any of the scars from the binds they had on him. He must have scars. "Did Katniss heal you back to life?"

Gale looks very uncomfortable. "Listen, Madge, I don't like talking about the past."

"Oh," she says. "Me either." She immediately follows up with a statement. "I gave her the pain pills that helped you."

His eyebrows raise in surprise. "Those were from you?"

"I still don't know why. I think I wanted her to be my friend, and...maybe I wanted you two to stick together. Did you do it to see if she loved you?" she asks.

He stares at her for a while before he breathes out a large sigh. "Yes. I did. Now can you stop with your questions?"

She's always been so curious about their relationship. The depth of it. Seeing them on her porch occasionally, selling together, tethered to the hip. One was never far from the other, and even back then she remembers wondering what that could have possibly been like. Having a best friend at the end of the world.

She remembers seeing how Gale would look at Katniss. He loved her. It was plain as day, as natural as the stars in the night sky. Katniss loved him, too, once. Before it all went to madness. She remembers seeing them meet up at the end of their days bartering at the Hob, switching items and trading smiles. She remembers a lot of things about the duo. She really liked Katniss, and she thinks she still might, even after everything. Especially after everything.

Now, she thinks she can see all the cracks along Gale's skin with the light from the television and the lamp on the side table. He's still as broken as she is, she realizes. He can't hide behind a glare or a smirk or his carefully maintained dark, ominous shadow in the vulnerable space of his apartment.

She rests her head on the back cushion of the couch, looking at him. "What is it like?"

She sees the muscle in his jaw twitch. Even with half a mind, she can still make him so angry. "What is what like?"

"Being in love."

He looks at her again, and they stare at each other for a moment. He runs a hand through his hair and looks away.

"Shouldn't you know? Johanna loves you."

"Oh, that's different. We're drunk. Drunk love is different. It's not _in love_."

"I dunno. I think drunk love is pretty accurate."

Madge thinks on this. "Yeah. I guess so. But when I wake up from this, I'll be back to not loving anyone."

He turns a bit more toward her, resting a knee on his cushion. "What do you mean?"

She half-shrugs, not realizing the conversation has now turned. "Tonight is a dream. I won't remember it. Most of it. Johanna probably won't."

Gale watches her. "I'll remember. I'll remind you."

Something zaps Madge's internal organs again, just like when she first arrived and walked halfway through the threshold of his apartment. Her stomach folds in on itself. This is dangerous.

"I probably won't believe you if you tell me Johanna loves me," she says. "I won't believe a thing you say."

"Why not?" he says. "I've always been honest with you."

That's right. He has. She specifically remembers him asking if she'd been hit by a bus so long ago on the sidewalk. She remembers his glares on her porch, telling her, without words, how much he didn't care for her.

"Because you're Gale Hawthorne, and I don't believe a word you say to spite you," she says, jamming a finger into his chest. Her finger _does_ feel partially jammed, and she whines, shaking her finger. "Geez, do you have a board taped to your chest? That hurt."

He chuckles. It's a deep, soft rumble. "I've heard kissing things make them feel better."

Madge scrunches her face. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"Don't knock it 'til you try it," he says, and he's smirking at her. It's a challenging smirk. She knows he thinks she'll tell him to buzz off and stop being a weird asshole. That's why she holds her finger out to him.

"Okay. Fine. Try me," she says.

Gale raises his eyebrows, his smirk never leaving. He gently takes her hand and kisses a knuckle on her finger.

The zap has turned into a buildup of static. It permeates all of her skin cells. She jerks her hand away.

He looks over her, assessing. What does he see? What is she showing him?

"What's the verdict?" he asks.

Madge grits her teeth, and she thinks it does feel better, if only because she's so distracted by the static climbing up to her brainstem.

"It's fine, I guess," she admits.

"How are your ribs?" He tilts his head at her, his eyes looking at her torso. "I can kiss those, too."

At this, Madge begins to feel the increasing panic intermingled with the static. She probably won't remember this, but the drunkenness is fading, being soaked up by all the cheese and bread, and even if she could get away with this—if his rib kissing turned into real kissing, real kissing turned into something else—would she really want to? She doesn't think she'd be able to face him after that. She might be ashamed or disgusted with her weakness, and she's been doing so good with her mirror game. Fewer flaws that stick out to her, smaller depths of hate in her eyes.

She looks away from him, going to stand. "I need to leave," she says.

"Wait, Madge—" he stands. He grips her shoulder gently. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

No, he didn't mean that. This makes Madge feel not only panic, but despair, too, because she's beginning to feel so much more now, and this little dream will be gone in the morning. Maybe she should kiss him. She'll never get to, otherwise, and—

"Stay the night here, like Johanna. I have a guest room. You two can share the bed," he says. When she looks at him, he sighs. "I know better than that. I didn't mean to be a dick."

He was doing it out of meanness, just like they do everything else. Why is she so taken aback? She knows better, too, just like he does. "You always mean to be a dick."

She glances at Johanna, who is sleeping like a baby. She doesn't want to leave without her, and she would probably find it difficult to find her way home, regardless.

"Fine," she relents. "I'm going to sleep."

He frowns at her, and he rubs his neck again. "Yeah…yeah, okay."

He offers her a different shirt to sleep in, but she declines. The last thing she needs is to fall asleep smelling him. Gale carefully picks up Johanna from the couch and deposits her onto the bed in the guest room. Madge watches him thoughtfully tuck her in. It's uncanny seeing him care for another person with such a high level of sincerity.

As he leaves and is about to close the door, Madge uses the last of her liquid courage before it evaporates. "Gale?"

He pauses, opening the door wider and looking at her.

She blurts, "When you have sex with girls, do you imagine they're Katniss?"

He blinks, and she can see his hackles raise. "Madge," he hisses. "What the fuck kind of question is that?"

She watches his reaction, all the cracks and pieces that are so vibrant with her bleary-eyed vision. Heartbreak is such an odd thing, affecting everyone so differently and yet so similarly.

"Don't worry," she whispers. "Your secret's safe with me."

He glares before his face softens in a twist of frustration. He sighs and goes to close the door.

"Goodnight," he grunts.

"Goodnight," she says.

* * *

The hangover isn't so bad the next day. It's mostly nausea with a sprinkle of a headache. The headache is fixed quickly with her pain medication. The nausea protests at any thought of food.

She unfortunately does remember some of the previous evening. She remembers the bar and the two fellows they giggled at for most of the night. She remembers snippets of the drive to Gale's apartment and being inside Gale's apartment, but the conversation is foggy at best. She remembers some words and some feelings that are bizarre without context. Perhaps the most damning piece of all is that she remembers the way he looked standing in his doorway. The image is burned in her memory forever, and now when she looks at Gale in real time, as he opens the door for both of them as they leave, that is the only person she sees. His dark, foreboding stance is no longer dark and foreboding. He's only a man who can't quite hide his sadness, and Madge wonders how she hadn't noticed such a recognizable thing.

"Don't talk to me. Goodbye," Johanna says in farewell, grumbling about her headache. Madge had given her a pain pill earlier, but it doesn't seem to have kicked in. She follows behind her.

"Goodbye, ice princess," Gale says, and Madge frowns at him.

"Is that new?"

"It's what we decided on last night."

Suspicious, she narrows her eyes at him. "Do I even want to know what happened last night?"

"I think you would know if something happened last night," he says suggestively. "You'd remember, no matter how drunk you were."

"Have you always sounded like such a creep?"

"Only to you, apparently."

"Maybe flirt with the females who actually like you."

"You thought I was trying to flirt with you? Not in a million years."

"That's better," she says, turning and following Johanna to the taxi that had just pulled up. "I'd vomit all over you if you tried."

As they drive off, Madge glances out the window. Gale's still standing in his doorway, leaning on the doorjamb, and she can't shrug off the feeling. The image of him against the lamplight now feels like a ghost, following her, haunting her, though it's only been an hour since she's woke.

Her stomach twists without the prompting of nausea. It feels like an electric sting. It's a new, unique sensation that she hasn't had before. She takes a deep breath to will it away, but it doesn't want to leave. It's frightening. It pricks at her like a splinter under her fingernail.

It _chinks _away at the protective layer around her skin.


	7. chapter seven

chapter seven

* * *

When once seeing Gale was nothing more than a coincidence, it now seems as if they are within a five mile radius of one another at all times.

Madge does her best to ignore it, to think nothing of it, and to act like she thinks nothing of it. When she's not working for Paylor and at her usual construction zones, overseeing and helping to create buildings, a team from the Safety Division will be in or around a near building or neighborhood, installing security systems or preventative measures to ward against intruders or rebels. Gale is always in one of these teams, either heading it or participating. Madge always ends up unconsciously finding his profile in the group, keeping unnecessary tabs on him. Occasionally, they catch eyes by some feat of magic, because they are never closer than at least fifty feet, and Madge always feels a _zap _when it happens. It is, at the very least, unsettling. Her throat itches like she has heartburn.

Once, Madge was turning the corner on one of her Division's new high-rises when she literally ran into Gale. They both go to apologize at the same time before they notice they are who they are.

_Not again_, she almost says out loud. She sees him once a week up close and several times far away, and isn't that more than enough? Instead, she huffs, and the smashed area of her chest that ran into him turns from pain into static electricity immediately as she looks upon him. It's an annoying habit her body refuses to give up, though it's been nearly a month since the drunken night at his apartment.

"Undersee," he says. "Hard at work?"

"Always. You slacking off?"

She knows he's not. He probably works as much as she does. She knows Johanna does, though she complains and complains.

He glances at his watch. "Yep. Naptime."

Ever since that evening with Johanna—and possibly before, when Johanna would not leave her alone and forced friendship on her—it has gotten much easier for Madge to smile with sincerity. When once she didn't know real from fake, it's now much clearer. Who knew she would have to learn something so innate, so regularly human?

Gale's joke surprises her, and a smile slips out onto her face.

"I knew it. Zero work ethic."

Madge expects a snide comment at her smile, because his eyes linger on it for a second too long.

"None whatsoever," he says, instead. He gives her a small smile back.

The _zip-zap_ sensation continues around her chest, and she rubs at it unconsciously. Gale notices and tilts his head at her.

"Hey, how are your ribs? Been a while since you've mentioned anything."

The word _ribs_ rings through her mind, and the way he's tilting his head at her gives her a tremendous wave of déjà vu. She furrows her brow, but no memory or picture comes to mind.

"Oh. Fine. Healed now," she says, shaking her head. It gnaws at her, and her right index finger begins to twitch. She glances at her hand and rubs her thumb over her knuckles. Very odd.

"Good thing another explosion hasn't slammed you into a wall."

"Fractured ribs should be part of the job description."

"I'll mention that to Paylor. She'll make edits."

"Hawthorne!" Someone calls from across the street. They both look over toward the man. "Stop flirting and get your ass over here! I need help with the circuitry."

Gale sighs. "Yeah, yeah, give me a second," he calls back. To Madge, he says, "I could be talking to a lamppost and they would think I was flirting."

"Do you only talk to the pretty lampposts?"

"Very funny."

"It's your fault, you know," she says. "Your reputation precedes you."

He seems annoyed. "We're not teenagers anymore. Half of District Twelve is gone, but I still can't talk to a girl without having an agenda."

He is certainly bothered by it, though Madge isn't sure why. Like she said, he's done it to himself. Her mind abruptly thinks about Melinda, the cute waitress who tried too hard in that quaint café. Gale smiled too much and gave Melinda too much hope.

"Just don't smile so much when you talk to them. It makes them think that you're interested."

"Isn't that the same thing as being polite? Smiling? Being normal?"

Madge thinks on it. "When _you_ do it, it gives the wrong impression."

"So you're saying my smiles are bad."

"Sure," she says, wanting to laugh at the bemused expression on his face. "Just be yourself. That will be the only deterrent you need."

He presses his lips together, and it looks like he's now trying to hold back a smile.

"Hawthorne! I mean it!" the man calls again.

"Okay, okay!" he shouts, turning away from her. "So, be myself. Got it." He shakes his head. "See you Wednesday."

Madge watches him go. She realizes she's grinning, and she bites the inside of her cheek.

* * *

The timeline Paylor had anticipated ends up being four months instead of six. Due to various similarities in structures around the sections of District Two that were not completely deactivated, many of them had similar mechanisms of reactivation. When not blood, it would be another human fluid—saliva, tears, urine. During a surveillance check, a worker sneezed inside in just the right area and set off a room full of deadly lasers.

And, due to the increasingly efficient work of the Safety Division, they were able to secure and renovate or demolish the old buildings in record time. Paylor insists that it was mostly due to Madge and her accidental insights. Madge adamantly rejects this recognition, as she'd much rather live in obscurity for all of her life. Paylor gives her an "end of employment" bonus, as she calls it, regardless of Madge's views, and Madge easily takes this since it's money and not a trophy or some such equivalent nonsense.

It's only days later when she's sitting at dinner with Johanna, where she says, "So, did you hear about the thing?"

"What thing?" Madge asks, not even trying. Johanna tends not to clarify if she doesn't need to.

"The 'gala'" she says, air quoting. "The invites were sent out today. It's for all of the Division employees—it's supposed to be for a job well done for this quarter, which makes sense. We've been working our asses off. It's also supposed to be good for employee morale, which I think is bogus, but whatever. And there are going to be prizes."

Madge raises a brow. "Prizes?"

"Yeah. The winners are picked by…get ready for this…a raffle. Oooooohhh," Johanna gesticulates, tone dripping with facetiousness.

Madge smiles at her before thinking on it. A gala. She's never been to anything that constitutes enough posh and glamor to be considered a gala. Her father and mother had gone to a few similar things when she was young, but she was too young to go.

"Think it'll be fun?" Madge asks.

"Maybe if there's alcohol. Otherwise, I can't see it being that great. Nobody knows how to let their hair down, and it'll be dull and boring," she says. Then she grins. "But now we have the best excuse to go buy extravagant dresses, and do our hair, and paint our toenails."

Half of her tone sounds sarcastic, but the other half sounds serious, and Madge can't tell if Johanna is really looking forward to this or not. She mulls over it for a moment.

"I would be fine with getting a new dress," she admits.

Johanna lights up. "Yes, Madge! That's the only thing that really matters. Wanna go now? It's _only_ two weeks away."

Madge sets her drink aside. "Obviously. We've already wasted five minutes talking about it."

Johanna laughs, grabs Madge's hand, and pulls her along to the shopping district.

* * *

Friday afternoon before the gala, Johanna comes over to Madge's apartment with her makeup bag, curling irons, and her dress. They have a few hours before it begins at 7:30, and they had planned to get ready together.

"I've heard this is what girls used to do together before they got rich and paid people to put makeup on them," Johanna says. "I'm of the opinion that this will be so much more fun."

Madge is inclined to agree. She goes and turns on her record player, deciding on a disc. Blissful, upbeat music of old permeates her apartment, and Johanna uncorks a wine bottle, because why not? They might not even have alcohol at a company function.

They spend inordinate amounts of time putting themselves together. Madge never puts on much more than powder and mascara, but this time she attempts eyeshadow and foundation and lipstick, too. Her and Johanna trade products and powders, and Johanna helps her pick out the color of lipstick that will go best.

When they're done, Madge is surprised they finished on time, with makeup that actually looks good. She didn't think she'd do well when buzzed, but she probably looks better than she ever has. She assesses herself in the mirror, clad in her dress and earrings and about to put on her heels. The old, stubborn question scuttles through her mind like a whisper‚ muffled by the layer of wine. _What's wrong with Madge, today?_

Johanna comes up behind her and places her hands on her shoulders. She places her face besides Madge's and squeezes. She looks at herself and Madge in the mirror, and she is gleaming full force.

"I am obsessed with us," she says. "You are flawless."

Madge tries not to compare with Johanna's beauty, but it is difficult when they are side by side so directly. Johanna's words are sincere, and Madge swallows.

"Really?"

"Hell yes, really," she states exuberantly. She eyes Madge in the mirror, and she must see something there, something that Madge hasn't been able to hide as easily anymore. It might be her hate just as much as it might be her sorrow.

"The makeup certainly helps," Madge tries, her measly attempt at lightening her own, suddenly downtrodden mood.

Johanna surprises her by resting her chin on Madge's shoulder, saying, "You can't put makeup over what you feel. I get that. It's been rough for all of us, Madge." She nuzzles her. "But that's why we've got each other. You are beautiful, on the inside possibly even more than the outside. Never forget that."

Madge nearly breaks down from the sincerity of her words, alone. The meaning behind them is powerful—enough to shut down her thoughts. Her mood is substantially lifted, and the icy armor melts away even more. Johanna has been so good at pulling off all the band-aids that hide and obscure Madge's wounds. She loves Johanna for it, but she also hates it, because she's feeling more and more, now, at breakneck speed.

Her eyes water, but she holds back as much as she can. Johanna would never forgive her for ruining her makeup before the gala.

"How much wine have you drank?" she says instead, dabbing the corner of her eyes with one finger, trying her best to keep tears from touching mascara.

Johanna rolls her eyes. "Oh, shut up. I just went serious, deep, and dramatic with you, and that's what you have to say?" She leans backward and crosses her arms under her chest. "I'm never giving you another pep talk again."

Madge smiles at her through the mirror, and Johanna smiles back. Who would have thought all she needed was someone who cared enough? Who understood? Someone who was a friend?

"Now, put your heels on. The taxi will be here any minute."

* * *

The most important piece of information to describe about the party is that, yes, there does happen to be alcohol. Johanna looks downright gleeful when she sees the champagne flutes decorating the white cloth covered tables lining the room.

"Are you an alcoholic?" Madge asks as she watches Johanna down one glass and grab a second.

"Are you in denial about every emotion you feel?" Johanna shoots back. Madge glares at her, and she laughs.

"Okay, okay. So I guess yes to both of those things."

Madge shakes her head and laughs, too.

The gala is already in full swing when they arrive, though they are only fifteen minutes late. Music is swelling all throughout the room, people are mingling in groups of twos and threes. Laughter and the glass flutes tinkle and clink frequently, adding depth to the atmosphere. Several round tables are dotted around the room with the same white cloth, four gleaming, upholstered chairs at each. Finger foods and hors d'ourves compete with champagne for real estate on the tables lining the walls. The room is large enough for three, large chandeliers to hang from the vaulted ceilings. The moldings and architecture is a wonder of artistry, and Madge takes it all in, memorizing the detail and the immaculate precision of the lines for future inspiration. Who had created this gorgeous space, she wonders. It borders along the sense of overwhelming grandeur and humble simplicity all at once. It is an engineered paradox.

"Who designed this place?" Madge asks aloud. "It's magnificent."

Johanna raises her brows and leans in. "How about we mingle and find out?"

Madge nearly shudders. "I hate mingling. But go have fun."

"C'mon, Madge, it's a gala."

"And you're so much better at mingling."

"You won't get better if you won't even try."

Madge wrinkles her nose and drinks the rest of her champagne flute. "Fine."

"What a champ. I'll start on the left end."

"Then I'll take the right. I hope you know I'll hate every second of this."

Johanna cackles her maniacal cackle. "Why do you think I pushed you into doing it?"

Madge gives her an earth shaking eyeroll, depositing her empty flute on a passing tray, and plasters on a smile as she heads toward the first handful of people in her immediate proximity.

By the time she gets to her third group, she's already exhausted with small chit chat. Her cheeks hurt, so she takes a break and passively listens to a debate between two of the older men. Her eyes flutter over the rest of the people in the room, so many dressed to the nines, embellished with gold and silver, with glitter or up-dos, a masquerade of beautiful and painted eyes and lips and coiffed hair. She glances toward the entrance, and her eyes snag on Gale. He appears to have just arrived, walking down the few steps onto the grand entrance platform.

He's wearing a classic black and white tuxedo, looking for all the world like a very distinguished gentleman. It must be tailored by the cut of it. The lapels glimmer with a shadow of gray, a subtle pattern emphasized when under the correct lighting. His shoes shine, and he's wearing a bowtie. He's gotten a haircut, as well. Gone is the shagginess falling into his eyes and tickling the tops of his shoulders. It is a clean trim, cropped closer to his skull. It pronounces a cowlick that she's never noticed, the hair curling up and over, just a pause away from touching his forehead.

He glances up toward the ceiling when he gets to the end of steps, and he looks as she had felt earlier, taking in the wondrous details and grandeur of the room. A soft smile decorates his face, and after he observes the room, he makes his way toward the white tables lining the wall.

"There you are," Johanna says from behind her, threading her arm with Madge's and locking their elbows. She easily leads her away from the group, the older men now in a heated discussion about different types of power tools.

"Thanks for saving me," Madge says.

"Only you could find yourself getting stuck with the dullest people in the room." Johanna glances over her shoulder. "Okay, see that group with five people? Three guys, two girls. One of the guys is a giant. One guy has silver hair and glasses."

"Yeah, I see them," Madge says, and they walk leisurely together, ending at a space in the middle of the room where they have a better view. "What about them?"

"The silver haired guy is the architect," Johanna says, voice tinged with pride and excitement. "Overheard it from some other ladies who are either divorced, jilted, or otherwise desperate for a man."

"Nice sleuthing, junior detective. You always get the more interesting people."

"Probably because I'm also super interesting." Johanna grins. "Anyway, he's kinda hot, right? In a silver fox type of way."

"Are you about to say what I think you're going to say, Johanna?"

Johanna pouts. "Why not? It would be fun. It wouldn't mean anything. Also, what if you two hit it off and geek out over crown molding and baroque and marble countertops?"

Madge assesses the man again. She doesn't feel immediate attraction, but she never does. Regardless, she is very interested to talk to him and find out about his inspiration for this room and its detail.

"Maybe," she reluctantly complies.

Johanna continues to glance at the group before her eyes alight. "I've got a better idea. Let's compete. We'll chat him up. Whoever gets his number first wins. Nothing else. The loser owes the winner drinks and dinner."

Madge thinks it might be the champagne from a bit earlier, but she seriously contemplates Johanna's idea. Johanna will win—that's a given—but it might be fun to play along. Johanna won't relent no matter what, anyway.

"Live a little, Undersee," she says, nudging her. It confirms Madge's thought.

"Okay, fine. First one to get the fancy architect's number wins," she says. Then she smiles. "How about we put higher stakes on it? Number and a kiss. Doesn't matter what kind. On the hand, cheek, lips. Whoever gets both will…um…get bragging rights."

Johanna laughs. "Oh, that was so devious until the end. But I like it. Am I rubbing off on you?"

"Probably."

They break off, Johanna going to the ladies room to "touch up". Madge makes her way back over to the champagne table. When she grabs a glass, she notices Gale is standing near it, a few feet away. She takes a sip of her drink, steps forward and says, "Hawthorne."

He turns and looks at her. He's holding a flute in one hand, with his other hand in his pants pocket. He's the epitome of casual.

"Undersee."

"A bowtie?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

He lifts his flute, gesturing at her. "Makeup?"

"More makeup."

"You wear makeup at work?"

She's suddenly uncertain as to why she corrected him. "Not a lot, just…enough."

"Oh." Her looks at her ponderously. "The tailor said I'd be able to pull off the bowtie. I didn't really know what that meant but went with it."

"Bold move."

"Fancy dress."

She's wearing a garnet brocade dress. It's off the shoulder with sleeves that end at her forearm. It has gold leaf accents, intertwining with red sequins. It reminds her of fall, mimicking a dying vine. The dress falls right above her knees, and while it was beautiful, it also has enough give so that she can walk normally. That's what sold her on it.

"You got a haircut," she says. "Yet you still remind me of a caveman."

That's a boldfaced lie. He's never been like a caveman.

Amused, he turns his face to the side, looking out toward the masses of people in the room. That's when she notices the scar on his temple, from the first explosion they shared together. It's a thin, white line, but no hair grows along the scar. It stands out now that his hair is short.

"Who knew we could clean up nice when we were forced?" he says.

"I blame Johanna. What's your excuse?"

"My vanity, obviously. Where is Johanna?"

Madge glances around, knowing before she sees her. She's chatting up Mr. Architect. Casually brushing his arm. She's already got him taking covert glances at her cleavage. She's good.

"Over there, winning," Madge says, nodding her head in her general direction.

Gale raises a brow. "Winning? That guy is probably twice her age."

"We're playing a game. We're trying to get his number and a kiss. First to get both wins."

He stares at her, then he stares at Johanna. He shakes his head. "I shouldn't be surprised, considering you both are the craziest and the weirdest."

"I take great pride in those titles."

"So, why are you here and not over there? Johanna's got a head start. You could be duking it out."

Madge watches Johanna work her magic. It's like a car crash, with Johanna being the devastating blow. It's hard to look away. The poor man never had a chance. His cheeks are rosy and he's laughing, and Johanna even lets his hand drop down from her lower back to her ass.

"Oh, I—" Madge almost says, _I was never going to win._ She only wanted to talk to him to pick his brain, more than likely after Johanna dug in her talons and made him fall in love with her.

"I'm not good at that," Madge says instead. "Johanna's an expert, and she's beautiful. There isn't competition."

"Don't sell yourself short. If you go up to him right now, you'll give that man a heart attack."

"Mm. No. I don't think so. I don't have enough cleavage."

Gale's eyes fly down to her chest before he blinks and quickly looks away. A hint of pink surfaces on his olive cheeks.

"I don't think that'll matter much to him," Gale says.

"Oh, so you _do _think I don't have enough cleavage."

"I—that's not—"

Madge smiles into her champagne flute. "I've never heard you stutter before."

"Because I don't, usually."

"I assumed, if you could flirt with lampposts, talking about a woman's cleavage would be child's play."

"I'd never flirt with you, remember?"

His words wipes the smile right off her face. Of course. It didn't matter the amount of eyeshadow, blush, or lipstick she had on.

"Right, how could I forget?" she says under her breath. She glances back to Johanna and Mr. Architect, and Johanna is going in for the kill. She is dipping her lips to the man's ear, and then she jerks away. Another man has tapped on her shoulder, gaining her attention for a moment. Madge squints. The man seems to be relatively good-looking, and when he smirks at something Johanna says—which was either acerbic, sarcastic, or deadpan considering her face—he really _is _good-looking.

He must say something that grabs Johanna's interest, because he leads her to another area of the room. Now's her chance.

She thrusts her drink into Gale's face. "Hold this for me, will you? I'm going to flirt with someone who appreciates feminine attention."

Gale reflexively catches her glass. "Hey—I—"

His words are lost as she walks away. She grins as she hears his stutter again. It gives her the confidence boost she needs to stroll up to Mr. Architect with the same smile. She catches his eye almost immediately.

"Excuse me, sir. I couldn't help but overhear you're the creator of this magnificent piece of art," she says, with the best, most genial voice she has. It nearly itches her throat.

He laughs heartily, his cheeks continually progressing from red to dark violet.

"You've heard correctly." He eyes her—not salaciously—but it still makes her uncomfortable. "My goodness, I'd say you exceed the beauty of this place, without a doubt."

"Oh, that is very kind of you. My name is Madge."

"Ah, Madge! Wonderful to meet you," he boasts loudly, and to her immense surprise, he takes her left hand and kisses her knuckles. She didn't even have to encourage it. "My name is Ulrich Mendelsohn, previous art director for the Capitol Districts. Now, I'm in the Creative Division of the newly minted government."

Madge turns this over in her mind. She's curious in an instant. "I don't mean to be so forthright," she begins. "But were you aware of the locations of war devices in the Capitol District buildings?"

He hums, still holding her hand. He turns it back and forth. "Had I known once, my memory was certainly wiped clean. He'd do that to the people outside of his inner circle. Snow, I mean. Pity that. I heard some innocents died recently." He examines her hand as if looking for something. He readjusts his glasses. "No ring?"

Madge tries as politely as she can to slip her hand from his. He reluctantly lets her go, though he smiles at her like he's drunk and she's an angel. To be fair, he is drunk.

"Not yet," she says.

"My advice? Steer clear of it. Have fun. If you don't, you'll be divorced as soon as you're past your prime!" He laughs, holding up his drink in an invisible cheers.

"_Past _your prime? Doesn't seem that way to me," Madge says, winking.

"Beautiful and kind! What a combo!"

If he only knew. "I don't mean to bring business into pleasure, but would you happen to have a business card on you? I'd love to pick your artistic mind over different designs and aesthetics."

"Dear God," he says, patting around his pockets in a manic rush. "Always, always carry one with me. Where the devil…" he grumbles. Madge bites her lip to hide her amused smile. He's probably a very sweet man without the inebriation. His fumbling around at a simple question is endearing. He's harmless, and Madge blames her own awkwardness over her feelings of social discomfort. She really does hate when Johanna puts her through this, but it is good practice. And, at least with this man, she seems to have gotten better. She's even pulled out a wink.

"Ah-ha!" he shouts triumphantly, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He brandishes out to her. "There you are. I knew I had one with me. Always do, always do."

She takes it, and a grin comes over her face. She won the game _and _a future conversation with an art director. It wasn't even that terrible. "Thank you."

"Please, give me a call. Day or night or whenever. I'll answer. I'm always available," he says so quickly, his words run together. "Good grief, I don't know why you would, but I'd be tickled pink if you did."

_Tickled pink._ She's never heard that one. "Pinker than you are now?" she asks, light-heartedly.

He belts a laugh. "I'm embarrassing myself, aren't I! It's your fault. Too many beautiful women, tonight, talking to me. Me!"

Madge can't help herself. She feels a slight pull to this older man, and she blames it on the burgeoning cracks around her heart, with emotion dripping out of them like a leaky faucet. She impulsively leans close and kisses him on his cheek.

"I'll call you," she says, and she turns and walks back toward the white tables. She hears him breathe out a puff of air.

"My word!" he says loudly.

Gale is nowhere to be found, and she doubts he would have kept her drink safe. She allows herself a fresh one. Halfway into it, she hears, "You nearly killed him. That poor man's purple."

Madge looks over her shoulder and turns around. Gale stands there, glancing over her. She's astonished to see he's still carrying her drink.

"Oh, hardly. Johanna wound him up."

"Whatever you say," Gale says. "At least he seemed gentlemanly."

Madge softens, glancing back across the room to Ulrich. "He was. He even gave me his number."

"I was so sure he would play hard to get," Gale says, smirking. "You won, by the way, even though you said you wouldn't."

At his words, she realizes he must have been watching her the whole time. "I guess so. But more importantly, I get to talk to him about how he created this," she says, gesturing around them.

"That man," Gale points unabashedly. "Designed this?"

Madge grins. "Yes. Who knows. Maybe we'll hit it off. He can take me on tours of his special buildings. We'll eat dinner in fancy restaurants."

"I hope not," Gale grunts. "He's so…old."

"Age is only a number," Madge says, finding enjoyment in Gale's discomfort.

"Are you seriously…I mean, are you considering…?"

She lets him flounder for a while longer before she takes pity on him. "Right now, no. My previous relationships weren't much, so if he does show me a good time…" Madge trails. "Then, I don't know. Maybe. Maybe I need someone older and wiser, to open my eyes to the beauty of the world."

Gale studies her, smiling a bit at her sarcasm. "I've never imagined you being with an older man."

"You mean to say you've imagined me with a person?" Madge is a little surprised. "I always figured you imagined me in one of those pre-war convents. You know, where the women swear off men."

His lips quirk. "Maybe I have, once or twice. Before I got to know you better."

This piques her interest. "Okay, now I want to know. What kind of person can you imagine me with?"

It niggles in the back of her mind that this is a topic that is just asking for her to get her feelings hurt. He's going to say something cruel—and she'll need to prepare for it. Find the band-aids quickly, patch them on for some relief.

"Someone…" he begins, glancing around the room. "Younger. Definitely younger."

Madge smiles at this. "Okay, sure. Younger. What else?"

He ponders, and it's a wonder how he takes the question seriously. "Someone who admires you. Inspires you. Someone who's intimidated by you but determined and genuine."

Madge blinks. Those are things she's never thought about. It whets her hunger for more.

"What else?" she says.

Gale stares at her for a moment. "Someone who sees you for who you really are. Challenges you. Someone you can be yourself with. I think those things…are important to find in someone."

Madge thinks over his words. He hands her her forgotten flute, and she gently takes it from him.

"Are you talking from experience?" she asks.

Gale sighs. "Some. Some I'm still learning."

"Gale Hawthorne is still learning about relationships? Now, there's something I never thought I'd hear."

"Shut up," he says but amusement lingers in his tone. "Of course I am. I wasn't…prince charming. I didn't get the girl." He glances down into his drink. "Maybe I can get other girls, but not the ones that matter. The ones that count. What's the use of that?"

It's a rhetorical question, and he's smirking. She's surprised she can't see the fissures, the hairline cracks scattered around his skin. She lets her gaze settle over him, but his tuxedo, his haircut, and his silver eyes are hiding everything away. He reminds her of the chandeliers above them. They are beautiful, and so far out of her reach, broken up into a million pieces that are strung together by careful manufacturing and force of will.

"How do you do it?" she hears herself say.

"Do what?"

She's asked him this before, a long time ago.

"Smile when you hurt," she says. "What you're doing right now."

His smirk vanishes. He's caught off guard, and he doesn't speak any words right away. His speechlessness emboldens her.

"I learned it from you. You probably didn't know," she says. "Smiling when I didn't want to. Trying to feel it through the action. I figured if I did it enough, I'd start to feel something. You were my inspiration, I guess. Funny, right?"

He shakes his head, and his lips fall into a subtle frown. His expression portrays melancholy. "That's not something I'd wish to inspire in anyone. It doesn't work. Well, it never worked for me."

"Yeah. You're right. It doesn't," she says. "But it works when you need _something_."

"I'm sorry you've felt that way. Do you still?"

What a weird conversation this has turned out to be. She feels the emotions run out of her, the leaky faucet of her heart becoming harder and harder to shut off.

"Not as much as I used to."

He gives her a knowing look. "Good," he says. "I had a feeling."

"Really? Why?"

He shrugs. "Johanna."

Oh.

"Yes, she's…been great. What about you?"

He raises a brow. "You want to know?"

"Just enough."

"The job has helped."

"Oh, you're welcome."

"You're the least helpful part."

He's joking. Probably. It's just one quip out of many, but it still stings, like a finger slowly pressing into a new bruise. Silly of her to allow herself to feel it.

"Right," she says. She has the immediate need to run away from him. She's too vulnerable. She must get out while she can. "I'm still shocked you held my drink. Hopefully you didn't poison it. The temptation must have been high."

"It took everything I had in me," he says.

"Your honesty is appreciated." She turns her head away from him and scans the crowd for anyone familiar. Anyone at all. Why doesn't she even try to make friends at work?

There is a lull in their conversation. As she scouts the room desperately, she wonders why he doesn't leave to mingle with the others. She bites her lip and contemplates walking aimlessly around the room.

Gale places his now emptied glass onto the table, collecting with the others. They are lined up like a small army.

"You think you'll miss working for our Division?"

Madge sighs internally, clicking her nails against her glass. She's missed her chance.

"You mean, will I miss the anticipation of thinking I'll die at any moment and guessing at everything I do?" she asks sarcastically. She glances up at the ceiling again, her eyes following along the abstract mural, curling and twisting unto itself. There are spirals of golden paint shimmering down on them. "Yeah. I will."

"The company notwithstanding?"

"I'll miss Johanna."

"You'll still see her all the time."

"Work will be less fun."

"It will be," Gale says under his breath. Before Madge can think on his words, he continues. "What else?"

"If you're trying to get me to say I'll miss you, you'll be disappointed."

He feigns a wince. "Here I thought you'd long for my unending charm."

"Charm? You have that?"

He rubs along his chest with his hand. "The hits keep on coming."

"You're the one who asked for it."

"I forget you don't have a filter."

"Not with you," she says, smiling.

His eyes linger on her smile. "I've been meaning to ask you. Are these smiles real, or are they fake?"

The question feels like a dare, a challenge. She's much more vulnerable now, standing here with him, her chest unguarded and her arms at her sides. Her heart is begging for a knife to run through it, is just waiting for the inevitable plunge, and she thinks, for a split second, maybe she should let herself succumb to it.

The split second is gone with her blink, and she steps back into herself. She raises her shield once more, and continues with Gale what they've always done with one another.

"Just like you'll never flirt with me," she says, words hinting at meanness. "I'll never give you a true smile."

He doesn't react the way she wants him. He merely stares at her, deep and thoughtful. His eyes are liquid mercury, a scary quicksilver of pondering. He says, "You're a liar."

A stroke of panic paints her stomach. "Think what you want."

He shakes his head. "C'mon, Madge. You know as well as I do that's not true."

She glares at him and is silent. Gale shoves his hands into his pockets, and he shifts his weight from his right to his left. "I've been flirting with you for weeks, now. I've been so obvious about it."

Her face loses feeling. "What?"

"You know I have," he says, and she thinks he might be saying that to make himself feel better. "I've denied it to give myself an excuse to keep doing it. And because I'm a dick, remember?"

She's the one who's supposed to call him out on being a dick, not him. He's not supposed to say this. Her heart begins to rattle against her sternum like a bug trapped in a jar.

"Fooled me," she tries, a futile jab.

"And I've seen you smile at me more than once. You can deny those, too, but I have a feeling that's your excuse just as much as mine."

She is cornered and trapped. He is dismantling her so easily—too easily—with only a few words. Instinctually, she snaps back.

"What's your game, here? Make the ice princess embarrassed?" she seethes. Her shackles raise, and she realizes she's scared of him. She's always been scared of him, even way, way back to when he'd arrive on her front doorstep, glaring down at her—and why?

His face falls. "What? No—"

But she knows why. Hidden along the walls of her apathy, like the grout underneath marble tile. He was in love with a warrior—someone strong and alive and revolutionary. Someone who meant so much to so many.

Madge has never, and will never, mean that much to anyone who matters to her. She's always been second. Why would this be any different? How could it be?

"Tear her down? Make her worthless?" she continues, her grip tight on the thin stem of crystal glass. She can feel her heartbeat in her fingertips.

And what if she allowed it? A kiss, a bed—physical tethers so easily broken by doubt, by misplaced desire, by regret. She could do it, she thinks. She could have done it. She could have walked up to him and snagged him and brought him down with her, just like her previous suitors. If she had the strength of will. Now, her heart is too thin, being tugged and pulled without the band-aids or the shield, and there's a high probability that it will break. She wants to blame him, desperately, for everything. But she's the one who wanted to feel. Who wanted to try. Who wanted to stop asking herself what was wrong.

It's her fault and no one else's.

"Madge, that isn't what I'm saying at all. All I'm trying to say is—"

She places her glass down, and she crosses her arms under her chest. She turns away from him. "Please, leave me alone," she manages, the abrupt emotion gone like dead wind in her sails. She begins to walk away into the sea of people, wanting to drown in the chatter and the music.

Gale gently grips her shoulder before she can mesh with the people. "No. I'm not leaving you alone."

She jerks away. She wants to cry out in frustration. She keeps walking, but he's right behind her. "Why?"

"Because you're—" he pauses. "Why are you being so difficult?"

She bursts into a humorless laugh. "Because that's who I am. Difficult. Mean. Cold."

"I didn't think you'd run away."

At those words, she halts. A deep nerve thrums at the base of her spine. It crackles along the curve of her skull. She turns with a revitalized vigor, and he's right behind her, an inch from being up against her.

"I don't run away."

"Then what are you doing right now?" he asks.

"Escaping," she hisses.

His irises circulate with question and doubt. This is the part—the opening where she obliterates any and all connection, any _what if_, any potential.

"You still hate me that much, don't you?" he says, softly, under the din of other less important words floating around the room.

Yes, she will say. Yes, let me bury the knife in you before you can bury it in me.

She opens her mouth, and then she sees him, leaning against the door jamb of his apartment. When he allowed her into his most intimate domain, when he _looked_ at her. Who did he see?

"I don't hate you, Gale," she says, her voice a rasp. "It's that I'll never be the one you want."

He clings onto her arm, tight and suffocating like a handcuff. "How do you know what I want? How could you possibly think that you know that?"

"Everyone knows what you want," she says, trying to pull away. "I'm a piece of the past that you want. Aren't I?" She leans in, and it hits her like a lightning bolt. The look he had given her, under the umbrella of vulnerability, against the glow of his home. It told her what she always knew, and she was too dense to see, too inebriated, and too hopeful. "I remind you of everything that you could have had. What once was. What you dream about. Don't I?"

His grip loosens and loosens until it falls away. It is as if she's slapped him. He's caught in a net, and perhaps this is the better way, leaving him in a prison of words instead of gutted like a fish.

They stare at one another for a moment, and Gale's lips twist in a dark smirk, and the shadows are back—another layer on top of his shining tuxedo armor. She forces herself not to regret what she's done.

"You've got it all figured out, then," he says. His eyes are solid and pristine steel. "Guess if I hate-fucked the mayor's daughter, it'd help with the emptiness. Right? It'd help me cope. Or maybe I'd imagine you were Katniss, because that's what I do with everyone else."

His words are a whip, slashing across her skin.

He continues. "Maybe I'll think about Prim. You have the same coloring. Blonde hair, blue eyes."

She's forgotten, it seems, how unflinchingly cruel he can make his words. She realizes then that their banter, while filled with barbs, were not anything close to the realm of hatred or hurt.

"Stop," she whispers. She swallows. Her throat is dry, and her stomach is filled with acid.

"So what are you waiting for? Don't you need to escape? I might invent another weapon for a massacre."

The tear falls before she knows what she's feeling. She hardly knows what she feels most days, but standing here and staring up at him, she feels too many things. The names of all the emotions flick past her eyelids like racecars, all trying to take the trophy.

She's going to miss him. She admits it to herself. She's going to miss his fights and his words and his smiles.

"Goodbye, Gale," she says.

His stone veneer leaves for a moment.

"Madge…"

She can't bear to look at him, or hear the way her name sounds carried by his voice, how the tone sounds wistful, like this was all a mistake.

She turns and walks out of the beautiful, architecturally wondrous, fairytale of a room. She escapes like Cinderella, losing her grip before the clock tolls.

When she gets back to her apartment, she looks at the mirror, and _What's wrong with Madge, tonight?_ It's all splayed before her like blood splatters.

Her heart oozes, tugged and torn and broken.


	8. chapter eight

chapter eight

* * *

It's two weeks later.

She keeps to herself. She falls back into the shelter of self-inflicted isolation. She tells Johanna she's busy with working, a new project that will bore her to tears. Johanna does not like to be ignored, so she's sure this will come back to haunt her in one way or another, but Johanna is also preoccupied. Madge guesses it's the man from the gala, but it's nice timing. She's able to avoid Johanna's no nonsense attitude that is certain to either kick her ass out of her emotional state or bring her irrevocably deeper into it.

When she gets home in the afternoons, she takes advantage of the mild weather and runs mini marathons so that she's too exhausted to care about much when she makes it back to her apartment. When she looks in the mirror, she tries to recall how Johanna looked at her, and it inspires her to see past the faults and the cracks in the foundation—or, at least, continue to try.

She's allowed herself to remove the cover from her keyboard. She stared at it for most of one night, taking it in. The next night she allowed herself to touch the keys, embarrassingly hesitant. It wasn't as if the keys would eat her fingers, but it certainly felt like it was capable. It's a relic, infused with monsters from the past like creatures living under her bed. She played a note, then two notes, then three. She closed her eyes and felt the timbre and resonance moving up her arm. It hit her elbow, and then it hit her shoulder, slowly engaging her bloodstream. It invaded her like a breath of resuscitation, her lungs gasping for the air it once knew, before they had begun drowning in the thick shadows of the past.

The songs spouted out of her fingers as if they couldn't get out fast enough, as if her fingers had been caged and locked in a fist of fear. And, in a way, they had been. Before she knows it, it's the early hours of the morning, and she's played nearly every song she knows. All the muscle memory striking her with a whirlwind of force, seeping out of every tendon and bone.

Her forearms burn unrelentingly as she finishes. She stares at the black and white keys, and she adores them, and she wonders why she had been so scared of them before. Why even the mere thought of touching them sent her careening face first into chaos.

_My beautiful Madge._ Her mother's presence is suffocating, as if she's there, bringing her face into her abdomen and cradling her. She can almost smell her soft, lingering perfume, the curve of her hip, and Madge cries that night. She cries like she hasn't cried in years, because she finally feels it all. Her broken heart, her sorrow, her grief, her hate, her love. It all comes flooding back into her system, and she aches uncomfortably, stretched too much, too quickly. It is a bright burn in her system, and undulating, merciless force.

To work out the soreness and the stretched skin, Madge plays a song every night from then on. She doesn't cry again, but she _feels. _It's a war. She runs to squeeze them out, and she plays to bring them back.

One day right after lunch, Natasha knocks on Madge's door. She announces, in that meek way of hers, that there is someone requesting an audience. It's not on the schedule. No one paged her. She sighs down at her, yet again, unfinished blueprint.

"Fine. Send them in," she says, not paying attention to Natasha. If she had, she would have noticed the small smile on her face, and how she quickly disappeared to fetch whoever was waiting behind the door.

The individual walks into her room. She tells them she will be with them in a moment, and if they'd care to sit. She flourishes her pen a few more times to finish one of the rooms, and when she is somewhat satisfied with it, she finally looks up. She jerks, and her pen ruins the first floor formatting.

"Madge," Gale greets her, standing in front of her desk. His posture is straight and erect, hands clasped behind his back. Stoic, as usual, even though his face is, funnily enough, anything but stoic.

She clears her throat. Her palms immediately break out into a sweat. She has to move around, so she grabs a pile of papers on the corner of her desk and stands, placing them in the bin behind her desk. She feels much more comfortable standing. He isn't so tall this way. "Paylor didn't…notify me of any job opportunities."

He shakes his head. "There aren't any."

"Why are you here?"

He glances off to the side for a moment. "I wanted to see you," he says. His posture holds him in a state of certainty, but the line of his jaw gives him away. He's out of his depth of comfort.

While he's looking away, she roves her eyes over him. She drinks him in like she's dying of thirst, memorizing every detail he's offering on display. The desperation she feels is embarrassing.

"Alright, then," she says, eventually. "You've seen me."

His chest and shoulders fall in a sigh. "About before…" he shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin the evening. That was never my intention."

He's never apologized before, not like this. "It's…forgotten."

"Eventually, maybe, but not this soon," Gale says, frowning. He catches her eyes, and he seems to steel himself. "I also came to tell you that you were wrong."

First an apology, and then a correction. She shouldn't be surprised. This is Gale, after all. Arrogant asshole that he is.

"Do tell," she drawls. "I always love to hear when I'm wrong."

He pushes past her sarcasm.

"I don't see the past when I look at you," he says. "I don't think of what could have been. Hell, I don't even think about Katniss when I look at you, okay?" His face is earnest. "We both lost so much, and we've both handled it in our own ways. You're not alone in that. You never were, and you shouldn't act like you are."

Madge glances away from him toward the fluorescent lighting, It burns her eyes, blinding her momentarily.

"I lost important people, but it was because I wasn't good enough. I thought I was, once, and then I thought I could be. But I never was. Now, here I am, still trying to be someone better."

When she looks back to him, he's approached her desk. His hands are on the gleaming white desktop. His eyes are digging into her skin like a shovel, and he's passionate and vulnerable. The lights overhead make his eyes gleam like lasers.

"Madge, you remind me of..._beginning_. Alright? That's why I didn't like you. Because here you were, making your way in this new world, and nothing bothered you. You were so put together. You never faltered, not once. You knew what you wanted, and you knew what to do to get it. Nothing held you back, and I admired it and hated it because I couldn't do what you did. I couldn't pick myself up and move on. The worst part is, I didn't _want_ to. And eventually, somehow, it was you. You made me want to try.

"Do you understand, now?" he asks her, staring fully, awaiting her response.

It's unfortunate, because she can't answer. As soon as she realized he was in her office, a ball of emotion ran up her throat, constricting all the oxygen to her brain. Now, she's arrested by the feeling, running through her limbs like lead, holding her down, rooted to the spot as if manacled. Where Johanna ripped the band-aids off, Gale has suddenly pulled out everything she's vigilantly kept behind bars. They float around her insides like spirits, like inmates wrongfully convicted.

"Hardly," she finally whispers. She reaches for one of his hands pressing into the desk, and she curls her fingers on top. Pale versus tan. Calloused and coarse. "I hardly understand any of it." She looks up into his face, and she sees surprise, there. She sees roughened edges that are softened. "I'm not what you say, though I wish I was."

He sees a strong woman—so different than what she sees in her mirror. He was right. She _was_ wrong, even though she had been _so sure_. He's silent for a moment as they watch each other. It's almost like they're looking at new people.

"You don't see it," he says. "But I do. Lots of people do."

She bites the inside of her cheek hard. "I've never been good enough for anyone. You won't be any different."

"I haven't even kissed you, yet. How do you know it won't be different?"

She takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes. "No, Gale, be serious. You matter. You scare me. You will leave me."

He stalks around her desk and kisses her, just like that. So easy and abrupt. He's warm, and he's blazing, and then she's boiling. He slips into her mouth, and her heart thuds hard against her sternum, and that's a new sensation. She doesn't even feel that when she's running. It claws at her stomach, tying it into a knot.

"I don't hate you," he says, breaking away. She can't catch her breath. "I… like you. And for the record, you should know that I'm going to be flirting with you all the time."

She feels a similar pull to him that she felt with Ulrich Mendelsohn, but it's a deeper, more meaningful pull. She reaches up to touch the white scar on his temple. Her other hand lands on his breast pocket, right below the stitches of his name. He tilts into her touch, and she's suddenly holding his face.

"Work isn't the same without you," he says against her lips. "No one to pick fights with, no one to tease."

She wants to smile, but she can't. Not until she knows for sure.

"Gale…" she says. "Are you sure the past…is it still…" She doesn't know how to word it like she wants. Is he still lost in his own regret? His past desires? Is his brokenness lording over him, controlling him as it seems to control her, most days?

He eyes her, watching the changing expression cross her face. "The past will always be there," he admits. "It's a battle. Some days are victories. Some aren't." He looks at her for a long moment, and she holds his gaze.

"Am I...are you going to use me?" she asks, the question bubbling out of her.

He grimaces, as if she's clawed at him. "I will always love her, in one way or another." His hands fall away from her, and it looks like this physically pains him. She lowers her hands, too, resting them on his chest. "But...she made her choice. It's time that I made mine."

She realizes then, that he's showing her his heart. He lays it before her like an unguarded treasure, ripe and sweet and ready for her to pluck from its vine.

"To answer your question, no. I'm not…_using_ you, Madge. I'm moving on."

She lifts her hand once more, palm landing on his neck, her fingers on his jaw. She feels the ricochet of his pulse, vibrant against the barrier of skin. Her heart spills affection as she looks at him, pooling into her stomach, and she allows herself to feel it. It's terrifying, and this will be different. She is already becoming consumed, ensconced, imprisoned, but floating and flying. It's contradictive. An unknowable puzzle.

She pulls him back down to her, kissing him like she's never kissed anyone. It heals her and soothes her, his tongue a balm against the burn that stretches the length of her entire being. She thinks this kiss could last forever, and she wouldn't notice. She slowly begins to lose her mind.

"Come to my place, tonight," he breathes against her lips. "We'll have pizza. Watch a movie. Whatever you want."

He's grabbing her hips, and her legs feel shaky. She grasps his shoulders like they are ledges of a cliff, holding on for dear life.

"Okay," she answers, whispering.

He pulls her against him again, rewarding her with another kiss.

"When do you get off work?" he asks.

"So eager," she says, managing to tease.

"I waited two weeks. Two weeks too long."

She realizes he has probably been thinking about her just as much as she's been trying not to think about him. The thought caresses her like an intimate touch.

"Seven?" she asks.

"Seven."

He kisses her one last time, and it's slow and sweet like a promise. It leaves her just as breathless as the desperate kisses they shared minutes before. He lowers his hands, stepping back from her with a sedated pace. She sees his ruffled appearance, his disheveled hair, his slightly swollen lips. She'll admit it, now—he's always been unquestionably and unfairly handsome, and something about his perfect posture being undone by her makes him even moreso.

"I'll…see you," she manages.

"You sure you can't skip work, now? We can go to that café. Or that place with that really good ice cream."

His words spark a forgotten, drunken memory. She smiles a little.

"Keep it in your pants, Hawthorne. I'm already seeing you tonight."

He runs a hand through his hair, making it messier. He gives her a shamelessly roguish grin.

"Fine, fine. Just trying to make up for lost time."

_Lost time._ She wonders if he only means the two weeks they had been disconnected from one another. Either way, his grin makes her begin to blush, and she clears her throat and straightens her skirt.

"If that will be all…"

"Do you always wear pencil skirts?"

Had he commented on her clothing a few weeks ago, she would have sniped something back at him. Now, however, she doesn't feel indignant or angry. She feels quite the opposite under his liquid stare.

"Don't be so suggestive. I can report you to human resources."

"You'll report me, huh?"

She rolls her eyes. "Get your ass out of here, Hawthorne."

"I love it when you talk that way."

"I swear, if you don't—"

He walks the few steps up to her and kisses her again. It effectively silences her.

"If I don't what?"

"Let me do my job," she says, but she pulls him back to her for another kiss. He hums a moan, and the static takes over her stomach. She leaves her sentence a broken, fragmented thought, and it's forgotten as soon as she feels his tongue slipping into her mouth.

"You'll get back to it, eventually," he mumbles. They are too preoccupied with one another that Madge doesn't hear the timid knock on her door, nor the muffled, "Miss Undersee?"

They only break apart when they hear a strangled squeak of surprise. Madge steps back looks beyond Gale to see Natasha, looking about as red as a tomato and staring at everything but them.

"I—I apologize, I assumed that…"

Madge takes an even larger step away from Gale, and he doesn't have the decency to look abashed. In fact, he looks pleased, almost preening when he glances back to Madge.

"No harm, no foul, Natasha," he answers. "We had the most beneficial meeting."

Madge's blush won't leave her alone. It's maddening, and she's warm, and because it's maddening she just keeps getting warmer. She clears her throat.

"He was just leaving. If you could see him out, Natasha?"

Natasha is looking back and forth between them, her eyes bulbous behind her glasses. A small smile begins to grace her features, and she nods. "Of course, Miss Undersee."

Gale dips his head toward her. "See you later." As he turns, he winks at Natasha. Natasha follows behind him, but pauses at the door, looking back at Madge. Her eyes are cut with a knowing glance.

"Shall I _prioritize_ Mr. Hawthorne from now on?" Natasha asks, and her tone is not timid. It's almost devious. Madge knows immediately that's what Natasha had done—letting Gale come in unannounced and without any other agenda besides slipping himself fully under her skin.

Madge opens her mouth, before shaking her head. She scoffs, then she smiles.

"I trust you enough to prioritize who you see fit, Natasha," she says. "And please, call me Madge."

Natasha lingers. She contemplates something before she finally gives a little nod.

"Okay…Madge," she says softly and closes the door behind her.


	9. chapter nine

a/n; This is it, folks. Thanks for reading.

chapter nine

* * *

At seven p.m., Madge finds herself sitting on Gale's couch. He's ordered pizza—plain cheese, which is her favorite even as she endures his teasing about how boring her choice is—and a movie is already playing on the television. Both are untouched and unwatched as they sit on the couch beside one another. They are content with staring. When once she would have been uncomfortable with anyone staring at her for longer than a few seconds, wondering what they see when they look at her—_is she as hideous to them as she is to herself?_ She can't feel that way under his stare, because his eyes are kind and soothing and vulnerable, like he's looking deep inside her past the skin and bone into the crevasses of her heart. He has a soft smile on his face, and he's bordered by that indulgent, golden glow of the lamp on the side table. She can stare at him for days and days—and inside, she's still terrified and afraid of what this could potentially be, but she's grounded, here. In this moment, she is unafraid of her position on his couch—if only for this one night.

"Tell me something," he says.

"Like what?"

"Anything. Why do you love architecture? What do you do after work?"

So she tells him. She tells him the things that no one ever asks her and the things she's always avoided because why would anyone want to know?

She tells him she loves architecture because she can make things perfect, perfect for a day or a month before the structure begins to settle and crack from the vibration of earth. She tells him it's like making something new, like a rebirth in the District, and how it's what she needed after the war and what felt like the end of her own life.

She tells him that she runs after work. She runs and runs—but how it hasn't always been that way. She explains how she was before—how she experimented with exercise, with her hair, with her clothes. How she didn't know what she was doing, but that she was trying. How it was hard for her to feel anything after the war, and how she pursued the perfection of her work. How she pursued relationships to break out of her apathy. She tells him that she played piano, and that she had played endlessly back in District Twelve. She tells him she quit after the war, and how she started only a couple weeks ago. How it brought something back to her.

"I didn't know you played," he says. "I want to hear you, someday."

The thought of Gale hearing her play—the most personal thing she does—forces her to exhale a shaky breath. She doesn't even have it in her to be sarcastic.

"Okay," she answers.

She tells him how he made her feel in the quaint café two years ago.

"How did I make you feel?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

"You made me feel like you always have. I felt like the person I was trying to hide from. That…girl from District Twelve who couldn't do anything right. A few words from you cut through me, and I hadn't felt so vulnerable in so long," she says, and she's fascinated by how easy it is to tell him these things, now. How the words flow out of her like she's been wanting to say them forever.

He reaches out a hand and rubs his thumb across her cheek. "Madge, don't cry."

She's shocked that she is.

"Oh, I…" She jerks her head away from him, feeling the damp line of tears under her eyes for herself.

"You're alright," he says. His voice is so gentle. It's a wonder he can talk to her like this, so understanding and patient and kind. "I'm sorry I made you feel…so uncomfortable."

She smiles a little, and she reaches out to touch his hand. "If you didn't, I don't think I'd be on this couch with you."

He runs his fingers over her palm, slowly threading their fingers together. She watches them tangle, weaving tightly in a pattern of white and olive skin.

"Your turn," she says. "I haven't talked this much in…I don't know. Ever. Tell me about you."

He takes in a deep breath, and his eyes fall from her face to her collarbone. He's uncertain, and she realizes this is hard for him to do, too. To be vulnerable, still, even after coming to her office and telling her all the perfect things she needed to hear.

He begins eventually, telling her after the war that he ran away to District Two. He couldn't stand being in Twelve after everything, after having lived one life with the people he loved, only to have it all twisted and mangled. He calls his family frequently, to hear their voices, to make sure they were doing well without his constant presence, and how he hates that he can't be there because he is the worst kind of coward.

They visit him, a few times a year. He says that's how he's survived so long in this District. Without family, he feels as though he is nothing.

"It is lovely there, if you ever decide to go back," she says. "I'm sure your family has told you."

"They have," he tells her. "Maybe one day. I need to. I can't be so…afraid anymore."

The controlling power of fear is something they are both so intimately acquainted with. Madge feels the overwhelming need to kiss him, so she does.

"It takes time," she says.

He tells her that the fear was trumped by the guilt. Perhaps he shouldn't feel guilty, and Paylor has had the discussion with him before after she found him passed out in a bar. But that doesn't mean anything. It only means something if you believe it, too, and he can't even find the strength to try.

He tells her that first year after the war is a haze. He was drunk half the time, ingratiating himself with women the other half. He would take on odd jobs for Paylor occasionally, but he was inconsistent and didn't care, until she saw enough potential in him to keep him. She kicked him into living. She saved his life.

"I owe her everything," he says. "I can never pay her back."

That's how he met Johanna and his other colleagues. He had only just started when she ran into him on that mundane sidewalk, then a month later when she sat at his table in the café.

"You were a blast from the past that I didn't want. At all," he says, smiling sadly. "After that, you were in the back of my mind constantly. I thought, why is Madge Undersee in District Two? How did she get here? What does she do?

"When I ran into you later on that same damn sidewalk, I tried not to care, but I had to know. I…started researching you, asking around about you, finding out about you working in the Reconstruction Division, and…" he trails off, and he is beginning to look embarrassed. "It sounds ridiculous saying it out loud."

"It sounds like you were stalking me, Hawthorne," she teases.

"I didn't realize that's what it seemed like at the time," he admits, glancing off to the side. He tends to do that when he's uncomfortable, she's noticed. "At first, it was just a distraction. Doing it helped me stop thinking about myself. My attention was finally focused on something else instead of what I had done before." His throat bobs in a swallow. "I guess I didn't think to just go up and ask you. I thought you might be…I don't know, suspicious, and not tell me anything."

"You're probably right," she says.

He tells her how he had learned a lot about her from her colleagues. He talked to her boss under the guise of gathering information for Paylor, when it was mostly for himself. He had seen what constituted as her resume, seeing the list of jobs she had been in charge of, from her meager beginnings in District Twelve to a woman who had her own office in District Two.

"There were no gaps in your working timeline. It was impressive," Gale says. "So when the job came up, I knew immediately. It was going to be yours."

She stares at him. "That's how it went."

"Now you know the whole story."

"Almost," she says. "You're forgetting something."

"What?"

"You were my bodyguard."

At the words, his cheeks turn pink, and he truly looks sheepish.

"That was…"

"Another plot you masterminded?"

"I was essentially putting you in danger. The least I could do was help protect you from it," he says after a few thoughtful moments.

She touches his cheek with her hand. He sighs into it.

"No wonder Paylor thought we were friends. You recommended me and then agreed to protect me."

"A bit pathetic when you think about it."

They gaze at each other again.

"Nobody has ever…" she begins, but her throat catches. She can't manage anything else.

Gale runs his fingers up her forearm, from wrist to elbow and back. Goosebumps raise in his wake.

"I was so unfair to you," he says, flipping her palm over and running his thumb over her knuckles. "Such an asshole."

"You know what the funny thing is? I probably wouldn't have been interested if you weren't."

This pulls a grin out of him. "Is that why your relationships didn't work? They were too nice?"

She is distractedly touching his other arm. He has veins that protrude along his forearm, and she takes his lead, running her fingers up to his elbow, following their pathways. He's always wearing his jumpsuit or long sleeves at work. She doesn't see this. They emit an undeniable strength that she hasn't detected from him before.

"Oh, I don't know," she whispers. "Probably. They were…boring. I'm going to sound like the snobbish mayor's daughter that I am, but…" she says, trailing and trying to smile. "But it didn't feel like anything. No passion, nothing unexpected. It was like we played parts, following a structured process. And then once that was finished, there was nothing else left to do."

He shakes his head. "When there's no chemistry, there's no chemistry. It's either there, or it's not."

She feels the underlying zaps fluttering underneath her skin. _Chemistry._

"Do you find it often?" she asks, not sure why. She doesn't really want to know, or talk about other girls he's had chemistry with while they both leisurely touch one another on his couch.

"Not really," he says. "Fleeting chemistry? Of course. But not the kind that keeps you coming back."

That satisfies her. Her fingers find his chest and makes unintelligible patterns on his cotton shirt. It's soft and thin, and if she concentrates, she thinks she can imagine touching his skin. She feels him exhale, can almost feel his heartbeat behind his sternum.

"I couldn't stop looking at you during the gala," he says quietly.

She's surprised. Her fingers stall on his chest. "You couldn't?"

"I knew I had to do something. For the first time in a long time, I knew. I hadn't been so certain about anything for…years."

She stares at him, and he stares back. He isn't glancing off to the side.

"I was an idiot. I didn't go about it the right way. You were gorgeous, standing there talking to me, and I said the wrong thing like I always do."

His words jack her heartrate up. Her body thinks she's running while she's curled up on this couch. "No, I was the fool, Gale," she says, inching closer to him. "I let fear control me. I ran away."

He lifts his hand and combs through her hair. She's left it down, today, which is a deviation from the normal ponytail. She inches forward some more, and their faces are very close to one another. She breathes in his exhales, and they're sweet and warm.

"Let's try to conquer our fears, then," he says. "It might be easier together than apart."

Her insides swell at his words. They are consuming her again, puffing up like a chemical reaction, destroying her rotten insides and cleaning her to a healthy shine.

She grips his neck and kisses him. She begins to realize she's spilling her heart into the action, spilling all the combusting emotions that are stretching her skin. He runs his hands along her waist, digs his thumbs into her hips. He cradles her in his lap, and she wraps herself around him like a vice. The kisses are decadent, and the touches are generous and full, and when they break apart, she's looking into his eyes like she's looking into her mirror and she thinks,

_What's wrong with Madge, tonight? _

For the first time, the answer is nothing. Nothing. She searches and searches and there is nothing wrong. It's finally achievable, and she knows if it's achievable, it has the potential to leave. If it's achievable, it can come back. It can stay. It can settle into her bones, it can mend, and it can purge her doubt.

She is alive.

"Okay," she answers him, and she smiles. "We'll conquer them together."

* * *

The**End**


End file.
